ANATOMY

OF

FILM PERFECTION

By

Filip “Filmento” Mentos

February 2023

Introductory Words From Me, Filip Mentos

Around five years ago, I began making Youtube videos drawing lessons from movies to collect viewer behavior data for my final thesis at school. While my initial intent was to just get in and get out, the videos did well enough for it to make sense to keep the train moving – I’d have something to do in between work and I’d learn more about writing and filmmaking to use at work. And now, half a decade and almost two hundred videos later, I thought it’s time to condense all those lessons into one easily accessible form: this book.

In essence, the gist of my content is to identify a few topic-specific negative or positive educational points about a film and present them with examples from the film. And the main problem with Youtube is that, although many viewers do come to learn, most of my audience don’t give a flying bleep and are there just to be entertained with movie clips – which is something I have to cater to, for better or worse. And what this book allows me to do is present the education without the fat. You don’t have to listen to my voice or suffer baity titles or look at cringy meme-jokes four months out of fashion. You can just focus on the information.

The way the structure here works is that I’ve divided my videos under different core topics of filmmaking and summarized their educational points into shorter form, to be easily navigable and ingestible. At first, the focus is on foundational craft areas like concept and characters and plot and scene-work. Whereas later on, there are more specific topics like genres and sequels and blockbusters and adaptations. Most of the focus will be on writing but not bound to it alone.

The question you may be asking right now is, “Why should I believe you, Fil?” Should you believe me because I’ve done this for years, or because I’ve written some TV, or because of my irresistible charisma? The answer is you shouldn’t believe me. You shouldn’t believe anyone just because of who they are or what they’ve done – I think Chris McQuarrie is one of the best writers in the business, yet I still disagree with his views on exposition. What you should do is listen to and digest the educational points and examples you’re about to read and then decide their worth yourself:

1) If you think the point is wrong, do the opposite.

2) If you think the point is onto something, heed it.

– Either way, you win.

Also, since the points are condensed into short form to ease navigation and efficiency, some of the work will fall onto you. I’ll do my best to give context for all the examples and information presented, but it will definitely help if you’ve seen the movie in question and if you see the full video for more context should it be required. And while my purpose isn’t to explain detailed story twists and turns, there will be spoilers ahead… although, the films covered should be big enough to have been seen by most.

I guess that’s it. I hope some of what you read here will be of use and help your writing career.

CHAPTERS

CHAPTER 1: HIGH-CONCEPT

CHAPTER 2: CHARACTERS: HEROES

CHAPTER 3: CHARACTERS: VILLAINS

CHAPTER 4: PLOT

CHAPTER 5: THEME

CHAPTER 6: STRUCTURE

CHAPTER 7: SCENES & SCENE TOOLS

CHAPTER 8: GENRE: ACTION

CHAPTER 9: GENRE: HORROR

CHAPTER 10: GENRE: THRILLER

CHAPTER 11: GENRE: SUPERHERO/EPIC

CHAPTER 12: GENRE: VIDEO GAME

CHAPTER 13: HOLLYWOOD: ADAPTATION

CHAPTER 14: HOLLYWOOD: BLOCKBUSTER

CHAPTER 15: HOLLYWOOD: FRANCHISE

CHAPTER 16: HOLLYWOOD: SEQUEL

CHAPTER 17: HOLLYWOOD: HUMAN FACTOR

CHAPTER 18: ESSENTIAL FLOPS

DETAILED LIST OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

HIGH-CONCEPT

High-concept is arguably the most effective weapon for an unknown writer to use to get their screenplay sold and made. But what is it? Well, it’s an idea so self-explanatory that it makes everyone who hears it think, “Yeah, that’s a movie.” It’s an idea so inventive that it makes other writers wish they had come up with it. It’s an idea so good and exciting and commercially viable that when you tell it to Steven Spielberg in an elevator, he doesn’t call security on you for trespassing in his office but instead invites you to dinner to discuss more.

Or in title terms, it’s like this:

– A Quiet Place: The world has fallen silent after being invaded by sound-hunting aliens.

– Gemini Man: A washed-up assassin-retiree has to go up against a cloned version of his younger, ruthless self.

– Inception: A master thief has to break into a businessman’s mind to plant an idea.

– Brightburn: What if Superman grew up to be a psychopathic murderer?

Had you come up with any of these ideas in your script – with even decent execution – odds are you’d be a lot richer right now.

There is no one place where high-concept ideas are born. You can get them anywhere. They can come from your personal experiences with elements like sun and snow, or from the inherently supernatural nature of space and ocean depths, or from an ordinary story that you dress up in an elevated form like with Schwarzenegger’s Maggie. At heart, that movie is an intimate drama about a father losing his daughter to a disease, except that the disease is a zombie virus gradually turning the daughter into a walking dead. Familiar but elevated.

To sum it up, high-concept is a car that runs like any other, with the difference being that it’s built with high-functioning chrome parts that make it that much cooler and faster. And so, in this chapter, let’s see what to keep in mind when looking for that million dollar movie idea.

Edge of Tomorrow – How to Master Concept, Part I

Edge of Tomorrow pits Tom Cruise in an exo-battlesuit against an army of cheating aliens – cheating, because every time they lose, they rewind time to reset the day. It essentially takes the time-loop concept of Groundhog Day and adds more concepts on top of it to create its own identity that is not only valuable and efficient but also fully functioning…

Firstly, the different conceptual elements equal each other to keep things united and coherent. The alien invasion is an element that audiences can accept as is – because they usually do so with one extraordinary thing – while the other two elements are born from it. The time-loop ability that Cruise gains from the aliens is how the aliens successfully conquer worlds, and the exo-battlesuits are what humanity has created in this near-future to compete with the aliens’ physicality. One equals another. The audience isn’t asked to get into a mess of three movies but rather one movie with three shades. There’s a big difference.

This doesn’t mean that rivaling concept elements can’t function, as The Avengers for example is a big hodgepodge of gods and magic and aliens and tech and whatnot. But the reason it works is because all those elements have been normalized one movie at a time. Whereas if in one film you introduce a biblical flood AND an alien invasion AND talking cars… good luck.

Secondly, the conceptual elements source the content to build an exclusive and worthy experience. The main characters are very time-loop oriented: there’s a cowardly press officer who grows into an expert soldier by trying and failing endlessly, and there’s a veteran mentor who has grown so numb to death that in her intro she leaves the hero to die. Same with the plot: the goal is to master the exosuit to hunt down the alien hive controlling the time-reset, while the stakes are shown in practice when the loop is failed. The locations range from an alien-infested battle-beach to a dangerous exosuit training facility, the challenges require understanding repeating situations, and so on. What happens is made possible by the concept.

From comedy to action to setups and payoffs, most of what this movie does, only it can do. It’s the fact that the hero can fail his way from zero to a hundred as a soldier that makes him special. If you want to see Edge of Tomorrow, you can do so only by seeing Edge of Tomorrow.

Thirdly, the concept takes a back seat at the end to shift value to the finish line. When the heroes attack the alien hive, many of the flashy elements from the exosuits to the time-loop ability to the alien armies get left behind, to a point where it’s just the two heroes trying to get past one alien. It is an external step down, sure, but a necessary one to add weight to individual actions and choices and the relationships between individuals. It’s the intimate human emotion that audiences ultimately take with them – we either win here and now, or we lose it all.

Think of it as a race. There are many types of races with many types of elements, but the ending always comes down to the same: the raw human thrill of pushing across the finish line.

The Old Guard – How to Master Concept, Part II

The Old Guard is a Netflix action film about immortal semi-vampires using John Wick gun-fu to fight bad guys in modern day, with 2000-year-old Charlize Theron leading the way. It didn’t exactly change the industry, but it did utilize its specialty strongly enough to stand out…

Firstly, the concept’s specialty is introduced quickly and effectively to earn the audience’s interest before it’s lost forever. The opening is a very generic Bourne rip-off that follows undercover soldier-heroes operating in the Middle East, up to a point where you start to feel like turning it off. But at the twelve-minute mark, something strange happens: the heroes get ambushed and shot to death. No joke, they get riddled with so many bullets that they could pass for Swiss cheese. And then something even stranger happens: they get back on their feet and shrug it off. Boom. Just like that, the audience has been convinced to keep watching.

A special concept is only as special as its appearance on screen. You can have the greatest idea ever and yet it won’t matter if there’s nobody left to show it to – if the audience doesn’t see it, the audience doesn’t see it. That’s why the idea should be sold fast and with a bang.

Secondly, the concept’s weaknesses get flipped into strengths to turn their disadvantage into an advantage. The main gist here is to play with immortality, and it’s done so much that death itself starts to lose value. It’s as if in every other scene someone is suffocating or blowing up or falling from heights or getting shot in the head by someone teaching a lesson, only to walk it off. And so, to prevent that from degrading the experience, the movie looks for value on the other side of it. The stakes become about fates worse than death like drowning in an underwater coffin forever, the twists become more unexpected like death being utilized as a ruse, and the action becomes something John Wick could never survive. The silver lining is the focus.

Don’t just utilize your conceptual elements where they work and ignore them where they don’t. Instead, identify their biggest downsides and find a way to turn them to your advantage.

Thirdly, the concept is used to explore thematic topics in a fresh way, in a way that other movies can’t. A lot of films examine human nature, but since The Old Guard has immortality to play with, it can do so in practice over generations. When the heroes get hanged and buried alive in the Middle Ages for being different, and later get turned into lab-rats for profit in the modern day for the same thing, it shows how little humanity changes. That’s the message explored here. We like to think of ourselves as culturally advanced, yet our fundamental faults remain – human nature doesn’t change with time, only its appearance does. And accordingly, the ultimate truth proposed is that real change requires more than time… it requires work.

A great concept doesn’t give you new thematic topics to touch on because everything has been touched, but what it does do is allow you to say familiar things in new ways, in new light.

Gemini Man – How to Fumble Concept, Part I

Gemini Man matches a washed-up, retiring assassin played by Will Smith against his worst enemy yet: a cloned version of his younger, ruthless self. The film is a testament to the power of a great idea, because despite many setbacks, Hollywood kept trying to get it made ever since the 90s. The issue is that by the time it was made, the idea had been trampled. Not only because it takes the film half an hour to get to the idea, but also because it fails to commit to it…

Firstly, the characters aren’t faithful to the concept. The assassin hero, Henry, is meant to be a deteriorating has-been, except he isn’t. In his first big scene he makes an impossible sniper shot, while in his next big scene he takes down a CIA death squad without a sweat. And that’s an issue, since when he now becomes hunted by his younger self called Junior, the central confrontation loses half of its power. It’s not so much an old has-been versus a young buck, but more so a master assassin versus a master assassin who is slightly younger.

A concept is only as strong as the characters embodying it. The time-loop element in Edge of Tomorrow would be pointless if Cruise was already an expert soldier at the start. The young clone element in Gemini Man is pointless because age doesn’t seem to carry consequences.

Secondly, the concept’s thematic question is left unanswered and unexplored. Junior represents modern warfare with hi-tech weapons and gadgets and attachments, and as per the idea, Henry should obviously represent old-school warfare with an emphasis on manual methods. The main gist would be about these opposite ways of combat going head-to-head, right? Well, no – Henry uses the same modern stuff as Junior, from smartphones to hi-tech weapons to Bitcoin. The central thematic conflict isn’t about the methods of yesterday versus the methods of today but rather about guns and gear versus more guns and gear. Big whoop.

Without a thematic question as an anchor, high-concept action is just loud action. You can remember Skyfall for being about Bond’s old ways versus Silva’s new ways, but you can’t remember Gemini Man for anything because there’s nothing to remember.

Thirdly, the concept’s philosophical side is not adhered to. Junior has been created to be the perfect artificial killing machine without human flaws, which sets up a deep battle over whether being human as a soldier is a strength or a weakness. Except again it’s not the case, because from the start, Junior is more human than Henry. He’s awkward around women, he enjoys ice-cream and National Geographic, he abandons his mission to avoid killing cops, and he’s constantly crying. The opposing sides of the philosophical battle are lost, as too is the battle.

It is understandable that the filmmakers wanted to push Junior’s CGI technology to make him as humanly real as possible. But the issue is that the concept’s foundational point was always the opposite. And when you go for concept, you need to go all in.

R.I.P.D. – How to Fumble Concept, Part II

R.I.P.D. is a wannabe blockbuster from 2013 in which Ryan Reynolds stars as Nick, a cop who dies and becomes a cop of the great beyond where he joins up with Jeff Bridges’ Roy to hunt dead people hiding on Earth. It borrows heavily from big high-concept movies like Men In Black and Inception, yet without being able to make much out of those concepts…

Firstly, the conceptual elements build scenes at face value. When Nick goes to arrest his first “deado” with Roy, that’s how it plays out: he knows going in there that it’s a deado, he’s in the comfort of veteran company, and it all happens exactly as per the basic scene description. Same when Nick goes to his own funeral to meet his wife. He’s driven there by Roy and he waits for the funeral to be over and he walks up to his wife in the least intrusive moment possible. It is cool but not enough. The concept doesn’t seem like a big deal since it’s not showcased as such.

When Jay meets his first alien in Men In Black, it’s a massive event with twists and turns – the sequence is built with the concept in a significant way that sells it as such. That’s what the funeral in R.I.P.D. should’ve been as well. Maybe Nick isn’t allowed to see his wife, and so he punches Roy and escapes to crash his funeral at the worst time. It’d be more than basic.

Secondly, the conceptual elements emerge in a casual manner that decreases their value. The heroes’ indestructibility is established as a joke in the opening voice-over flash-forward. The existence of dead criminals is established with exposition at a police station. The prophecy about the end of the world is read off a piece of paper. Even Nick’s new identity isn’t revealed in the heartbreaking moment when his wife doesn’t recognize him, but rather later on when Roy tells him about it. All the specialty just kind of… unceremoniously comes into existence.

A concept’s value should be introduced with that value and characters’ strong reactions to it, like when Jay in MIB begs the first alien not to throw himself off a roof as he mumbles on about the end of the world. Because when that special value is blankly put out there by characters as if it’s just another Tuesday… just another Tuesday is how it will come off as.

Thirdly, the conceptual elements drive the characters in a way that leaves both sides hollow. Nick seems to be driving things initially: he dies because he stole gold with his corrupt partner, he joins the RIPD to see his wife, and he starts investigating the case of that mysterious gold found on a deado. Except none of that drive comes from Nick. It’s never clear what he stole the gold for in the first place, or why the RIPD recruits him, or how he randomly stumbles upon more of that same gold. All of it just sort of happens, as if it’s the concept behind the wheel.

Even though characters should be faithful to concept, they still have to be characters, people. It should be their defining wants and needs and motivations driving things rather than things simply occurring. Otherwise, the entire high-concept experience becomes cold and empty.

Inception – When a Film Equals the Idea

Inception follows a master-thief, Cobb, who breaks into the mind of a businessman to plant an idea. And in the same manner, the movie planted itself in the minds of audiences all over the world to the point of becoming an integral part of early 2010s culture. You could find it everywhere from South Park to the kid sitting next to you in math class – everybody and their dog was talking about “Inception” and “dreams within dreams.” And a big reason why is that the movie was built fully around its inventive concept, which made it easy to talk about…

Firstly, the concept is harnessed as mental real-estate in form of signature items and images to remember it for. There are personalized totems to signify dreaming like the spinning top, there are extraordinary events like a runaway train barreling across a city street, there’s an infinite staircase and a revolving hallway and the idea of dreams within dreams and so and so on. All these things are specific enough to own a portion of the viewer’s mind and guide it to the movie upon sight. After 2010, a spinning top wasn’t just a spinning top anymore but rather something that reminds the viewer of dreams as well as the top’s melancholy context in the film. The top has become mental real-estate of the mind, owned by Chris Nolan and Inception.

Writers may not have full control over aspects like props and visuals, but they can use the script to assign value to specific things that would otherwise be empty. We all think the same when we see a DeLorean or a lightsaber or a shape reminiscent of a crewmember from the game Among Us, as well as when we hear a T-Rex’s roar or that loud brass boom in a trailer. So use that for yourself. What distinct, outside-the-box items and visuals and tangible ideas can you birth from your concept, in a way that the movie can be remembered for them?

Secondly, places and situations are sprinkled with the concept to separate them from the pack. While the special elements don’t always play the biggest role, they do most often play a role. Exposition is given on an imploding Paris street, problems are solved in a hotel without gravity, a fight happens in a spinning room, a downtown car-chase involves a train, and a foot-chase involves an alley so narrow it feels like a nightmare. The core purposes of the scenes can be found in other movies, sure, but not in this manner. There’s always something Inception-y active within the scenes to talk about.

The correct amount of concept always depends on the scene, and there is such a thing as too much, but there should always be something. Otherwise, you run the risk of being just like a hundred other movies and their scenes, which is the last thing you want to be if you want to be talked about. Many movies have deadlines and urgency but only Inception has them in form of a slowed-down French song whistling in the air. It’s like Tom Hardy’s character says: don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger.

Jupiter Ascending – Broken Worldbuilding, Part I

Jupiter Ascending is the Wachowskis’ effort to recapture the magic of The Matrix by once more building an expansive world filled with high-conceptual elements. Instead of machines locking humans up in VR to turn them into batteries, this time the gist revolves around galactic royalty farming humans on various planets to… turn them into batteries. And for some reason, unlike the simulated world, this new galactic world just doesn’t function…

Firstly, the worldbuilding isn’t begun with the specialty of the world, which degrades its perceived value. The movie opens with dull backstory voice-over about the human hero Jupiter Jones’ parents, after which there’s a scene of her cleaning toilets. Then we go to an empty planet where royal aliens have a discussion, and then it’s back to more toilet-cleaning and so and so on. What happens either has nothing to do with the specialty of the world or is too weak to sell it. It’s like the specialty is cut into pieces too tiny to taste or get a taste for.

The beginning of The Matrix hits you in the head with the world like a sledgehammer, with an exciting showcase of all its amazing rules and possibilities that hooks you. That’s how Jupiter should’ve opened as well: with Channing Tatum’s alien hero stealing clues pointing him to Jupiter Jones while the planet around him is being harvested. Not with cleaning toilets.

Secondly, the world’s foundational gist isn’t built visually, which leaves it hollow. The main point is that rich aliens grow human planets like fields of corn and then harvest them for life-force. Very strong in theory, but not so much in practice, because we never see a planet being harvested nor do we get enough to view the villain as a true threat to Earth. Instead, the movie relies on the villain’s word about harvesting Earth as well as on you having seen Tom Cruise run from the tripods in War of the Worlds to get a sense of what harvesting probably looks like.

The Matrix shows the truth behind the simulation to sell it and generate audience investment. Whereas if you just say stuff like “Jupiter Jones is the queen of Earth and therefore a threat to the villain” and “the villain is under pressure from competing harvesting-companies”… meh.

Thirdly, the hero has no value beyond her role in the worldbuilding and thus no one cares. Jupiter Jones is boring: she has no goals or motivations and doesn’t do anything other than get taken to places like a bag of valuables. Jupiter Jones doesn’t accomplish anything: she doesn’t overcome obstacles or problems and just gets constantly saved by others. Jupiter Jones doesn’t earn anything: the only reason she’s even in the movie is because she’s a born reincarnation of the Galactic Queen. There’s little to nothing about her specifically to like or enjoy.

Neo goes on a journey into the rabbit hole regardless of whether he’s the One or not, whereas Jupiter Jones is swallowed up by the rabbit hole and spat back out at the ending credits. Only one of them is strong enough to make the audience care about the world of the rabbit hole.

Tom & Jerry – Broken Worldbuilding, Part II

Tom & Jerry tries to modernize Who Framed Roger Rabbit by building a similar wacky world shared by humans and goofy cartoon animals in 2021. The difference is that it can’t shake the stigma of being nothing more than a dumb, lighthearted distraction for kids…

Firstly, the rules of the world aren’t consistent, which reduces it into nonsense. The initial standard is that all animals are exaggerated cartoon versions of themselves, but the further things go, the more that standard breaks. If Jerry is sentient enough for humans to talk to, it is strange how humans then view him as an average rodent and casually discuss gassing him to death. If animals are much more than animals and humans know it, it is strange how humans then treat them like common animals. If humans still function like humans, it is strange how a New Yorker can get a job with a stolen British resume with no issues whatsoever.

In Roger Rabbit, cartoon characters exist and everything else follows real-life rules. In Toy Story, toys come alive when they’re alone and everything else follows real-life rules. That’s what Tom & Jerry should’ve done: pick a lane and stick to it. One unrealistic element in a world doesn’t mean that the whole world can become unrealistic.

Secondly, the world avoids topics and motives grounded in compelling reality. At first there are goals to get invested in, as Tom aspires to be a musician and Jerry needs a home. But instead of the conflict between these two personal motivations becoming the central point like in a comedic Civil War, Tom’s music aspirations are tossed aside and the whole thing is reduced into a goofy battle over who can stay in the nice hotel. It is funny but nothing more, like a game of tug-and-pull with nothing there in the middle to tug or pull because of.

In Roger Rabbit, the hero is solving the murder of his partner and deciding the fate of all cartoon characters – it’s goofy yet grounded enough to matter. That’s what both Tom and Jerry needed: something important to clash over, something they both require to make their aspirations a reality. You’d have the funny chases but with a larger purpose.

Thirdly, the world isn’t anchored in character emotion and thus lacks a heart. The human hero, Kayla, has no sentimental connection with cartoon animals and by result none with Tom or Jerry either. There’s no journey she goes through with them, no choices or sacrifices she has to make over them, no emotional arc she fulfills thanks to them. Their relationship is purely casual and superficial, which leaves the whole experience exactly that.

In Roger Rabbit, the hero hates toons because one killed his partner, and it’s the journey he shares with his new toon “friend” that makes him grow past his hatred. Kayla should’ve had that as well: some emotional scar tied to cartoon animals that her journey with Tom and Jerry allows her to heal. Maybe then the movie and its world could’ve been more than dumb fun.

Tenet – Concept as an Enslaver, Part I

Tenet returns Chris Nolan back to his high-concept roots, this time in form of reversing time. And while its specialty may be even bigger and more ambitious than that of Inception, it couldn’t achieve the same success. Arguably because the concept is so strong it’s harmful…

Firstly, the concept forms the narrative instead of being a natural part of it. The reason the Protagonist embarks on his journey is the concept of inversion: he finds out about inverted bullets and thus goes off to learn more about them because apparently their existence threatens the world. There’s no personal basis for his journey, no emotional motivation behind his task, nothing human underneath his actions. There are many cool moments from climbing buildings to crashing planes to executing a highway heist, but it’s always exactly that. It’s done solely because the concept of inversion exists. If there were no concept, there’d be no story.

The concept of dreams is a big part of Inception but not the reason behind it. Cobb goes on his mission to be with his family – there’s an ordinary human story underneath the specialty. A great concept can make a movie’s heart beat faster and harder but it can’t replace that heart.

Secondly, the concept is treated with overly cool composure to a point of degrading it. When the Protagonist first encounters inversion, he barely pays attention to it. When inversion is first explained to him, he barely bats an eye and asks scientifically accurate exposition-questions. When he first meets an inverted opponent, he barely thinks twice about it. Even when soldiers with inversion-knowledge show up out of nowhere, he instantly trusts them. It’s like the movie and the characters are so over and cool with the specialty they deal with that the specialty fades. Knowing about inversion apparently gets you killed yet people just joke about it.

Whenever Inception wants to sell elements, there’s a character like Ariadne there to be amazed, which is vital since viewers generate emotion from emotion they see. Whereas Tenet is in this weird middle-ground where every character knows enough about the concept to not think much of it, but still too little to be sure why it’s important… all of which carries over to the audience.

Thirdly, the finale is about concept rather intimate emotion, which lacks punch. The villain is launching a nuclear time-bomb in a desert town, and so the hero takes his army in two time-directions to stop it. The result of which is lots of running and shooting and explosions and time going wild. It is cool but in the same vein as Michael Bay’s later robot flicks: spectacle without substance. The bullets we shoot feel empty because we shoot at nothing and no one, the obstacles we face feel empty because it’s a bunch of rocks, and the enemies we battle feel empty because we don’t know them. There is emotion elsewhere but not with the hero.

After all the big dream action, Inception ultimately becomes about Cobb confronting his dead wife in their old home. It’s tiny in size yet massive in feeling. And at the end, it’s always the feeling that audiences take with them. At the end, it’s what we feel that matters most.

Rings of Power – Concept as an Enslaver, Part II

Rings of Power challenges House of the Dragon for the throne of scripted TV. And although it does have the opposition beat with concept – since it’s Lord of the Rings! – it’s ultimately the show’s overreliance on the concept that makes it much harder to get into. Fantasy fans may be fine, but casual viewers can have a tough time boarding the journey in the pilot episode…

Firstly, the launch into the story is built on built-in conceptual context, which can make it difficult for unfamiliar audiences to join in. The first half-an-hour is pure concept: an evil force destroys the tree of the elven home, and then the elves travel to attack the force’s army, and then the force is defeated, and then the evil army transfers under Sauron who has gone missing. There are human elements mixed in like with the hero Galadriel’s brother being killed, but barely, because most of the screentime isn’t spent on that but rather on the fantasy elements.

Dragons and fantasy lands aside, the entry into Dragon is very humanly universal. A crown princess loses her mother and desperately wants to be seen by her distant father – it’s that and her rise to the throne that the show will very clearly be about. Whereas when a pilot ends with a naked dude falling from the sky… for casual eyes it’s much less clear what the main point is.

Secondly, conflict is born from concept over motivation and is thus left two-dimensional. Most of Galadriel’s obstacles come from others embodying their roles: elf soldiers defy her shady orders because they’re upright elf soldiers, a politician elf tries to calm her because he’s a calm politician, and the Elf King wants to get rid of her because it’s for the best for the realm. The conflict doesn’t originate from personal desires or jealousies or the like. A human villager hates elves not because they did specific harm to him but because he’s human and they’re elves.

Much like in GoT, conflict in Dragon is strong because it comes from actions and choices that are individually motivated. The king’s brother challenges the advisor’s son to a duel because it’s a way for him to hurt the advisor who he hates for being closer with the king than him. It’s not so simple. People have their own wants and needs that can’t coexist, which becomes conflict. Much more compelling than an evil force attacking simply because it’s an evil force.

Thirdly, character logic follows the concept more than human logic and can thus be weird. The elves don’t take the great evil seriously because they think it “vanished” by itself. A villager runs from a sound even though earlier he was confronting an elf soldier face to face. Galadriel jumps off a boat to avoid going to Elfland, which is strange since it leaves her in the ocean – why couldn’t she just go home to get a boat? While there may be fantasy context to make sense of the behavior, it’s no use to viewers who lack it. To them, characters seem fake.

In Dragon, people behave as people. A brother causes scenes to not be a ghost, a daughter is angry at her father over feeling abandoned, and another father uses his daughter as merchandise to secure their position. It’s not black or white but rather people doing people things. And no matter the concept, people are what every story should be about.

CHAPTER 2

CHARACTERS: HEROES

The hero above all is the perspective into the story. And while there are no definitive rules on what a hero can or can’t be, there are some usual expectations. They should be likable or relatable enough so that the audience can care about what they do. They should be driven by a motivation so that there’s something for the audience to watch them do. They should possess some interesting qualities so that the audience can stay awake with them. And they should have a flaw to struggle with and grow past so that there’s a purpose to the journey that the audience goes on with them.

As various animal-based screenwriting books out there will tell you, there are indeed some cheat-formulas you can use to get the viewer on your hero’s side. One formula I’ve identified to work almost every time, for example, is as follows:

1) A hero does something good for someone

2) in a smart way

3) only to be punished for it

4) and yet keeps pushing on anyway.

But the thing is, not every hero is created equal and it’s not always even about being a hero per se. Lou Bloom in Nightcrawler never does anything for anyone except himself, nor does he really even grow over his flaw, yet he’s still easily one of best-written protagonists out there. And thank goodness for that since it means that not every hero has to be the same to function.

So, in this chapter, let’s look at a wide collection of different effective or less-effective protagonists to see what makes them tick. The nature of your hero will always depend heavily on the context you choose to build them around, and here are some of those contexts.

Alita: Battle Angel – A Hero to Root For, Part I

Alita: Battle Angel follows a discarded cyborg’s journey of self-discovery. And cool visuals aside, the main attraction is the hero, Alita, herself: she’s incredibly likable and easy to root for. Some of it is due to her big-eyed looks, sure, but it’s also because she’s built with the most standard and reliable hero formula that makes the audience love her and want her to succeed…

Firstly, Alita is dealt a bad hand and she plays it like a royal flush. Not only does she face obstacles as heroes should, but she’s also the ultimate underdog. She’s been discarded in a junkyard, she has no clue if she’s got a family or not, she’s not fully human like everyone around her, she has no friends or a set place in society. And yet, she makes the most out of it. She observes her new surroundings with wonder and enjoys chocolate in joy and generates a dream of playing the local sport. She’s an optimist who never misses the silver-lining.

It may sound simple, but humans are hardwired to like people who make everything out of nothing. Nobody likes whiners who mope around, not even if there’s a reason for it. Check out any Youtube compilation of Paul Dano crying and screaming to see for yourself.

Secondly, Alita does more for others than herself. She shares her food with a hungry stray dog and puts herself in harm to save it, she stands her ground against scary crooks to protect her foster dad, she sacrifices her dream of being a professional Motorball player to rescue her friend in need. Overall, Alita is incredibly selfless and kind, almost to a fault, like when she literally offers her heart to someone. Even when she does things that are terrible, it’s for someone else and thus easier for all audiences to accept.

This is essentially what Hollywood calls “saving the cat,” and you’ve seen it in a thousand movies, from Aladdin giving bread to poor kids to Indy saving his guide at the start of Raiders. It’s the act of the hero winning the audience over by doing something good for someone else, which simply works. You just have to do it in an organic and not-so-obvious way.

Thirdly, Alita never gives in to the unfair punishment she receives. When she gets hit down by a guy in a neighborhood Motorball match, she doesn’t scream bloody murder – she gets up and returns the favor. When a pro Motorball match has been rigged against her, she doesn’t quit or give up – she persists. When an evil cyborg dismisses her as a little girl, she doesn’t go on future-Twitter to complain – she puts his head through a table. Alita does have a vulnerable side as any human character should, but she never stays down in the face of opposition.

Once again, it’s basic hardwiring: we always respect and root for people who get knocked down unfairly and stand back up to keep going anyway. A hero should express emotions but not be emotionally entitled, a hero should doubt their own abilities but not keep them locked away forever. Perseverance is a quality we admire whereas instant quitting is not. That’s why you and I support Alita. That’s why I… need… more… Alita… please… I love her.

Spider-Man 2 – A Hero to Root For, Part II

Spider-Man 2 is a movie much like Alita in that it’s the hero that keeps the audience invested for most of the time. Which here is vital because the main plot for example doesn’t kick in until the 40-minute mark. I once became public enemy #1 on the Raimi-Spiderman subreddit for saying that but it’s true. And it’s fine since Peter Parker can carry the load on his own…

Firstly, Peter’s own active nature creates the problems and challenges. The reason Doc Ock is born is because of Peter: he tries to help and it doesn’t go as planned. The reason Peter’s life is in shambles is because of Peter: he keeps being Spider-Man no matter the cost. The whole movie is about the fallout of Peter’s own actions, which is not only poetic but also effective because we know he only ever had good intentions and thus want to see him fix things. It’s one’s own mess that always makes for the most powerful cleanup.

An active nature is essential for any hero and it can’t be stressed enough. Heroes like Jupiter Jones and Jyn Erso in the first act of Rogue One become very boring very fast because they just get taken to places without doing anything or causing anything to happen, like idle shells. Passive people just aren’t that interesting or compelling to follow. Active people are.

Secondly, Peter’s bad hand is not only unfair but also objectively unjust. Much like Alita, he can’t catch a break. He gets fired and rejected and demeaned and dismissed and slandered and humiliated… and that’s just on Thursday. On Friday, his girlfriend breaks up with him for missing her show, despite the reason being that he was helping people as Spider-Man. And at that point we care so much about Peter’s justice that we want to scream it at the screen. No, MJ, the doorman didn’t let him in! No, Harry, stop talking trash about Spider-Man to Peter! He didn’t kill your dad, your dad tried to kill him and many others!!

When a person is wrongly accused of something, despite actually deserving the opposite, that’s pretty much a guaranteed way to get the audience on their side.

Thirdly, even Peter’s lapses occur in a respectable manner. At the midpoint, the toll of being Spider-Man grows too heavy for Peter to carry, which leads him to toss it aside. But even then, it’s a choice he acts on to focus on other responsibilities. He becomes more diligent at school like an honorable student and more considerate of his girlfriend like a proper boyfriend. He doesn’t “quit” as much as he rearranges priorities in a way that keeps the viewer on board. What he doesn’t do is whine about being Spider-Man for sixty minutes and then stop to do nothing else. That would be the Paul Dano version of Spider-Man 2.

Once again, it’s okay for a hero to be human and non-perfect… but in order for them to keep the audience on their side, they need the audience’s respect. And by the way, the Paul Dano thing is just a joke. Kind of. Watch that Youtube compilation of him whining and you’ll get it.

The Curse of the Black Pearl – How to Introduce a Hero

Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl is the first appearance of one of the most entertaining and iconic and recognizable heroes in cinema history: Captain Jack Sparrow. From the moment we meet him, we feel like we know him and want to stick with him…

Firstly, Jack’s first impressions encapsulate his core being. Him sailing a sinking boat to Port Royal showcases the chaotic madness of his methods. Him pausing to salute hanged pirates showcases where his allegiances lie. Him acting like an idiot in front of Navy guards and getting away because of it showcases his falsely buffoonery nature. And also, him fleeing on the Navy’s own ship later on showcases his ability to get over any insurmountable obstacle in a way that in retrospect seems to always have been his plan. That is Captain Jack in a nutshell, and you get all of it in a very clear way in the first location he visits.

As in real life, first impressions in movies are everything. If you meet a person who is blue, and you get more shades of blue each time you see them, you’ll remember them for being blue. But if you meet a person who is green, and you get wildly different colors each time you see them, then other than that bipolar nature, what is there to remember them as?

Secondly, Jack’s backstory is full of distinct specifics explaining his core being. The more time we spend with Jack, the more mysteries driving him we learn about. How does he know about the Black Pearl? Why does he carry a gun with one shot? How does he know about Will’s family tree? He did WHAT with sea-turtles? And as these mysteries get unraveled, so too does Jack: he was ousted as the captain of the Pearl, he needs that shot for payback, and so on. With each answer, we get a more distinct idea of who he is. Jack Sparrow, the desert island escapist who never escaped. Jack Sparrow, the betrayed captain who never learned to trust again.

Think of it as a police sketch: with every new detail, the picture fills in more and more, until there’s a face. Jack seems like a real person because he seems to have a real existence beyond this one movie, whether it takes the form of sailors he stole from or ladies he cheated on.

Thirdly, Jack’s core being represents what the movie and franchise are about. With Pirates of the Caribbean, the main purpose and struggle and point of contention is freedom. And that’s what Jack is a reflection of. He doesn’t fight for piracy to be able to plunder and pillage but to go where he wants and live how he wants without restrictions of the modern age. That’s what we see when we see that scarf and dreadlocks, that’s what they in our minds represent. That’s what makes the man under them an unforgettable icon. Jack is freedom and thus he is Pirates.

It’s like Ra’s Al Ghul once told Bruce Wayne. If you make yourself more than just a man, if you devote yourself to an ideal… you become something else entirely. And that something else is a legend. It’s Captain Jack Sparrow.

Ralph Breaks the Internet – The Flaw & The Arc

Ralph Breaks the Internet uploads Wreck-It Ralph onto the world wide web. And although the film may have been divisive to some, to all it’s a great example of the technicalities behind a hero’s flaw and arc. It usually is animations that get character arcs down to a T since they redo things again and again until it’s just right, and this is what they most often tend to do…

Firstly, Ralph begins the journey with a passion so strong that it’s become a flaw. He’s so adamant to be the bestest best friend to his pal Venelope that he’s willing to create the same perfect day for them to enjoy again and again. The issue is that Venelope is starting to feel like she wants to leave and experience something new. Thus, Ralph faces a choice: grow over his flaw and let Venelope go, or double down and try even harder to make her stay. And since this is only the beginning, he of course is unable to choose correctly, which breaks their game world and sends him and Venelope on their journey onto the internet.

This is the first act and it’s about introducing the character flaw: the hero lives in a status quo that breaks due to their inability to get over their flaw, and thus the plot is set in motion. It’s Woody wanting to be Andy’s favorite toy so badly that he plans to get rid of Buzz and this way unintentionally launches them on the adventure.

Secondly, Ralph strives to complete his goal in a way that further reveals his flaw. Once Ralph and Venelope enter the internet to fix their game world, things get worse for him, as not only do they face new and dangerous things, Venelope also starts to make other friends who he deems unworthy. And as Ralph on his own faces the wrath of evil commenters, it becomes clear what the flaw behind his passion of being a good friend is: he still hasn’t gotten over being hated as a villain and thus needs Venelope’s validation to feel good about himself. That is the truth about Ralph’s flaw. Yet at this point he’s still unable to accept it, he still clings onto Venelope. And he does it so hard that it puts the entire internet in danger of being destroyed.

This is the second act and it’s about understanding the character flaw and rejecting it nonetheless. It’s Woody trying to get home with Buzz while still thinking that Buzz is dumb and that he himself deserves to be Andy’s favorite toy, which keeps making things worse.

Thirdly, Ralph overcomes his flaw to overcome the external challenge created by it. Now that Ralph’s insecure clinginess has put the entire internet in disorder, it finally becomes clear even to him that he does indeed have a problem. And to fix things, he must first do so from within, which he does by accepting that clinginess isn’t part of being a best friend and learns to let Venelope have her own life. In the process, the external problem is also solved and the internet is saved. Ralph has grown over his flaw to become a new man. His arc is complete.

This is the third act and it’s about growing over the character flaw by battling its consequences. It’s Woody becoming equal friends with Buzz and this way reaching home in time. Roll credits.

Green Lantern – The Weak Strong Hero

Green Lantern was meant to launch a new DC cinematic universe like Iron Man did for Marvel, yet its only lasting contribution was haunting Ryan Reynolds’ dreams for years. And the biggest culprit behind that is the hero, Hal Jordan, who gains the amazing powers of a Green Lantern. He’s supposed to transform from a witty douchebag to a supportable hero like Tony Stark, only he never does because he’s a hero whose great strength makes him the opposite…

Firstly, Hal never earns what he’s given and thus never earns the audience’s respect. The way he gets his powers is that one day a Lantern ring abducts him as its new wielder because it sees him as a man of great willpower and courage. Yet, he’s done nothing to even hint at it being true. He has shown talent as a fighter pilot, sure, but even that happens in a marketing scenario that mostly highlights his own foolish selfishness. It’s like he wins the jackpot without even buying a ticket, which isn’t too admirable. Nobody likes Gladstone Gander over Donald Duck.

Tony Stark earns his powers by making them happen, Peter Parker earns his powers by making things happen with them, whereas Hal Jordan is given his powers for free and does nothing with them until the plot finally forces him to. One of these is unlike the others.

Secondly, Hal doesn’t have motivated goals to move toward, which leaves what he has pointless. He goes to his nephew’s birthday party not because he’s trying to impress him or something, but just because. He dogfights a new generation of drones not to save traditional jobs or something, but just because. Even when he gets his powers, it’s the same thing: he learns to use them because a purple alien said so, he battles random co-workers with them because they suddenly attack him, and he goes to listen to Green Lantern exposition because the ring takes him there. It’s always the narrative guiding Hal’s actions instead of the opposite.

Tony Stark uses his powers to fix his mistakes, Peter Parker uses his powers to improve his unfair life. Hal Jordan, however, is a passive shell who quits the purpose behind his powers to do nothing else with them until the third act comes along to push him along. What a waste.

Thirdly, Hal’s relationships are so shallow that so is his journey. The pool of people around Hal is massive to say the least. He has relatives, work friends and enemies, childhood friends and rivals, Green Lantern colleagues and mentor-enemies. In fact, his bonds are so rich in quantity that there’s no time for quality. Relatives appear and disappear, Green Lantern colleagues can barely be told apart, aside from the love interest there’s barely any substance. Hal’s life is made up of so much that it actually has very little meaning to offer.

Tony’s journey is all about his assistant and mentor, Peter’s is all about his family and two friends – very tangible and direct. Whereas Hal’s “direct” link to the villain is that they both know and like the same girl. That’s all there is between them, that’s what’s relied on most. That’s why there’s so little emotional tension between Hal and the villain that nobody cares.

Iron Man – From Villain to Protagonist, Part I

Iron Man does what all other movies dream of by creating a hero strong enough to carry a franchise for a decade. And what’s remarkable is that Tony Stark is far from a hero. He’s an arms dealer profiting from suffering, a heartless narcissist thinking only of himself, an arrogant douche who does and says as he pleases. He’s basically the same as the sequel villain, Justin Hammer. But turns out that there are ways to turn a despicable villain into a supportable hero…

Firstly, Tony is redeemed of his sins through punishment and growth. The first 45 minutes are dedicated to him enduring endless pain for being an arms-dealer: he gets blown up and abducted to make weapons in a cave, he has to carry a magnet in his chest to not die from shrapnel, and he’s continuously tortured as he approaches certain demise. It’s like a spiritual ritual for him to answer for his wrongs. And once it’s done, his journey then becomes all about growing over what he realizes to be his flaw, as not only does he stop selling weapons but also dedicates himself to destroy all his weapons that can still cause harm.

Think of it as a form of baptism: a hero goes through an experience to be born anew. The audience is always open to giving people a second chance so long as it’s truly earned.

Secondly, Tony’s rough shell hides golden insides. Right from the start he acts like a heartless narcissist, whether it means dismissing his friends or treating women as objects. And although he shows genuine care for his companion in the caves, upon his return home he reverts back to that same narcissist. Except now we know it’s an act. He might not take responsibility for his weapons on the news, but we know he does within. He might not seem to value Pepper as anything more than a doll to dance with at a party, but we know he does within. We know that Tony Stark the person is no longer the same as Tony Stark the celebrity – inside he has a heart.

Who a hero appears to be is never as important as who the audience knows them to be. Bruce Wayne may act like an idiot in public and yet we always stick by him because we’re aware that’s not really him. It’s the golden insides beneath the rough shell that matter.

Thirdly, Tony’s negative features take a positive form. From beginning to end, he is and mostly remains an arrogant douche who talks without a filter and drives twice the limit and embarrasses others because he knows he’s the smartest person there. And while he can back that arrogance up, the key reason it doesn’t turn the audience against him is that he’s genuinely funny about it. He does talk down to a reporter but in a way that charms her, he does act superior to his friend but in a way that they both on some level enjoy. Tony’s faults result in a smile.

Justin Hammer lacks almost all of Tony’s redeeming qualities yet, nonetheless, he’s nearly just as likable simply for being funny and entertaining. He may be the villain, but we just love to see him on screen. As long as a character makes us like them, we like them. Simple as that.

Joker – From Villain to Protagonist, Part II

Joker takes the idea of turning a villain into the hero and pushes it to the next level. Not only does the aspiring comedian protagonist, Arthur, commit horrendous acts, but there’s also nothing funny or rewarding about any of it. Yet, still, he’s able to pull the audience along on his journey to prove that even a murderer can wear the proverbial cape…

Firstly, sympathy is used to get the viewer on Arthur’s side. From the very beginning, there are scenes utilizing a writing trick called “kicking the dog” which is as it sounds. Arthur gets beat up by neighborhood hooligans and gets blamed for it by his boss and gets fired from his job thanks to his lying colleague. It’s like the world is unjustly kicking him down, one instance after another. And so, when he finally snaps back and shoots some Wall Street guys assaulting him in the subway, the audience can see why. While we don’t necessarily agree with his actions, we can understand them emotionally enough to remain invested in his journey.

A dog that runs around biting is seen as a rabid monster, but a dog that gets kicked for no reason until it finally snaps and bites back is a dog standing up for itself. That’s Arthur Fleck and the cruel world keeping him down. A thing that’s not right can still feel rightful in the right context.

Secondly, Arthur’s evil actions are aimed at deserving targets. Not only are the victims kept very two-dimensional with no deeper dive into their personal lives, but they also cause their own demise. The Wall Street guys get shot because they assault a stranger. The clown colleague gets stabbed because he tries to destroy his co-worker’s life. The mother gets suffocated because she neglected her abused son who wasn’t even her son. The TV host gets his head blown off because he’s a poser exploiting his fans for views. The punishment doesn’t always fit the crime but with all the victims there is a form of crime involved.

Audiences are hardwired to seek justice, which is why it’s useful to involve justice in a hero’s darker actions. It’s much easier to not turn against someone when they’re correcting a wrong.

Thirdly, Arthur’s cross over the limit is not shown. While he does contribute to the death of Bruce Wayne’s parents by starting a riot, it’s not him pulling the trigger. While he may or may not murder his nice neighbor who never wronged him, it’s not seen. The director has said there was no murder, sure, but it doesn’t matter. What matters isn’t whether Arthur murdered the neighbor or who exactly shot Bruce’s parents – what matters is that the deeds that the viewer won’t accept cannot be directly, visibly attributed to Arthur. Like a gun-crime without a gun.

If Arthur were the one who shot Bruce Wayne into an orphan, the audience would turn against him instantly. He’d no longer be the protagonist of his own story but rather a full-on villain in a story that requires a hero to come in and take him down. But because that evil is not there on screen, neither is our need for another hero to show up to fix it.

Nightcrawler – From Villain to Protagonist, Part III

Nightcrawler tells the story of Lou Bloom, a hardworking nobody chasing the American dream by capturing crime on film and selling it to TV. A man of such horrid, psychopathic nature that he couldn’t get any further from the traditional Hollywood hero formula. And also, a man who is one of the greatest protagonists ever written and who you simply can’t look away from...

Firstly, Lou believes his own lie with full conviction. When he tells his employee that he will never ask him to do anything he wouldn’t do himself, he means it. When he shares his motto of the only way to win the lottery being to make the money to buy a ticket, he means it. Obviously, the words carry a horrible subtext: he’ll do literally anything himself, he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get that ticket that wins him the lottery. That’s Lou Bloom and his actions in the movie in a nutshell. But as twisted as his creed may be, at least he lives by it, and there’s something very inherently compelling about that.

Nobody respects a hypocrite, which is why it’s among the worst protagonist qualities. But a protagonist who fully believes in what they’re doing no matter how wrong it is… there is a strange sense of respectable integrity in that. Every hero has to be the hero of their own story.

Secondly, Lou has pure intentions without a general ill will. Yes, he moves a dead body to make for a better shot, and yes, he breaks into a house to film dead victims of a home intrusion. None of that is morally or even legally okay. But the thing is, he’s simply unable see that, he genuinely can’t see suffering for anything beyond the content it will produce. It’s not like Lou intends to hurt anyone by withholding information from the police – he just wants to make the most out of it and share it with the public. And while intention might not make a difference in court, it often will make a difference in the court of public opinion.

A protagonist’s evil deeds can be evil but should not be black and white, as a lot hinges on the context of what they’re meant for. It’s much easier for the audience to accept bad actions done with pure intentions than bad actions done with evil intentions.

Thirdly, Lou is relentless and will push to the ends of the earth if that’s what it takes. What begins with semi-harmless filming gradually escalates to evidence tampering and reckless endangerment and extortion and ultimately even murder. By the end we might be fully against Lou’s methods, sure, yet we still can’t help but be captivated by their sheer extremity. He wants to get that perfect shot and he’ll stop at absolutely nothing to get it, and as much as we may be shaking our heads at it, we’re gonna be right there along for the ride nonetheless.

Audiences love watching people break rules and push boundaries, that’s how Scorsese made his career. It’s like a high-speed car crash: we don’t like it, but we can’t look away either. Extreme people fully dedicated to their extreme craft are simply fascinating to watch.

Dead Men Tell No Tales – A Recipe for a Terrible Hero, Part I

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales is currently the last entry in the series and for good reason. Somehow, it manages to turn Captain Jack from one of the greatest heroes ever into the opposite: one of the most uninteresting and boring heroes ever. And thus, whatever signature character elements of Jack are lost, clearly, they’re vital for any great hero to have…

Firstly, Jack loses his industrious nature of overcoming obstacles on his own merit. Gone are the elaborate schemes of fleeing Port Royal with the Navy’s ship while sabotaging their other ship, gone are the witty multi-step plans of breaking out of King George’s palace. All that is replaced with random superficial occurrences, like a bank’s rope happening to pull Jack along just in time and a shark half-accidentally happening to pull him ashore instead of eating him. The confused, luck-driven stumbling can be enjoyable at times, but it ultimately comes at the cost of Jack’s diligence as well as integrity.

As funny as it can be to watch a hero survive by dumb luck, in the long run it can never beat seeing them solve problems with their own skills and knowledge. Luck will always be worth less than talent and hard/smart work.

Secondly, Jack loses his actively motivated nature of doing things of his own volition. Gone are the unyielding attempts to reclaim his captainship of the Black Pearl and to pull his ship across a desert by sheer hand. This time Jack has the Pearl in a bottle and just sort of looks at it longingly without putting in any effort to try to get it out, until the story eventually takes it out. This time other characters go on a journey while Jack is there for the ride because the thing other characters seek will conveniently solve his story problem as well. Jack’s not an active person anymore but rather a passive shell – a plastic bag advancing with the wind.

Heroes who get pushed by the story are never as interesting as those who push it. That doesn’t mean you can’t make a passive hero work, but it does mean that it’s very difficult. How do you create lasting entertainment with someone who does nothing?

Thirdly, Jack loses his ability to be in charge of his own story and destiny. He doesn’t end up in jail because he showed up to steal a ship nor does he escape jail because he has something to trade for his freedom like in Black Pearl. He ends up in jail because he’s a drunk with nothing better to do and escapes when people show up to do all the work for him for free. His failures and successes come from the universe pulling the strings instead of from his hands holding the strings. His journey is less his journey and more a collection of instances that move him.

A hero should never be in full control of their journey, but it should be their inputs that control the outputs of the journey. Things being caused to happen will always be more exciting to watch than things simply happening.

Men In Black: International – A Recipe for a Terrible Hero, Part II

Men In Black: International attempts to recapture the success of the original trilogy with a fresh pair of people in black. And much like the movie itself, the new hero, Molly, is among the dullest and most uninspired beings out there. Even the actor portraying her seems fully disinterested, as if it’s simply too difficult to make a hero like that work…

Firstly, Molly is driven by a want instead of a need, which makes her story feel insignificant. She does have a goal: to become a government agent working with aliens because she saw aliens as a kid. But that’s all. There’s no stakes or urgency tied to that, nothing happens if she doesn’t succeed – either she gets what she wants or not. The goal is missing a need to power it, like for example if Molly’s life had become an obsessive mess that won’t heal until she uncovers the truth about aliens. Currently, she just kind of wants to find out about aliens, and once it’s done in the first act, she’s left being an empty shell who only does what she’s told.

A hero needs an objective as well as a need to give it meaning. It’s the difference between playing ball with your friends and fighting for the World Cup in the final tournament of your career. The point is the same in both but only one truly matters.

Secondly, Molly’s path lacks a practical foundation and thus feels artificial. We hear that seeing aliens as a kid left her being called crazy and needing therapy, but all we actually see is her friend being supportive of her beliefs as well as every agency wanting to hire her due to her dedication to prove what she saw. We see her acing tests and becoming an MIB agent in record time and being instantly able to handle strange alien gadgets, all without any justification as to how. Both her past traumas and present actions seem forced and shallow because there’s no pragmatic basis for them. It’s as if she’s not a person but rather a construct of the plot doing and feeling whatever in the moment is required by the plot.

When Jay in Men In Black beats other candidates to become an agent, it’s shown how his street-smarts make it happen. It’s earned on screen. Whereas a hero whose flaws aren’t tangible and who gets everything for free simply because of who they are… that’s not too compelling.

Thirdly, Molly’s journey is a list of half-baked checks in boxes, which reduces the film into the same. She becomes obsessed with aliens when she sees them as a kid and that’s it, she walks into the MIB HQ to become an agent and that’s it, she gets sent to London and gets paired up with a partner and stumbles into plot info and that’s it. Her story just sort of feebly unfolds, as if the film is more interested in getting her through the events than in doing something with them to make the most out of them. As if there’d be no value there anyway.

A hero’s journey should never be a line to flow through but rather a series of events that are each made worth something. If the film doesn’t value the journey, how can the audience?

Captain Marvel – The Case of Empowerment, Part I

Captain Marvel is the MCU’s response to Wonder Woman, in which they cook up a similar story of female empowerment for young girls to look up to. Yet, despite the film’s massive success, Carol Danvers herself isn’t able to rival Princess Diana’s status as the topmost female protagonist of the time. It’s as if her own empowerment grows into a hindrance…

Firstly, Carol is too physically and mentally powerful, to the point of it becoming dull. She crash-lands on Earth and is instantly confident and competent, she gets captured by enemies and beats them up while tied up, and in the finale she even repels a space-armada without issue and defeats her mentor with a single blow. She’s very much a perfect specimen without flaws or weaknesses or vulnerable emotions who plows through every obstacle without having to truly struggle. And while it does make her strong, it doesn’t leave much to get invested in.

Diana in Wonder Woman is strong but far from perfect. Her journey is all about growth and emotion and struggling with insecurities and flaws and losses. She bumbles around in a new world and fails to save a village and loses the love of her life – she’s vulnerable. Empowerment should come with power but not to the extent of the journey itself becoming blankly boring.

Secondly, Carol doesn’t abide by the central theme, which leaves her journey muddled. The main thematic point of the film is about unleashing your inner emotional self to reach your full potential, and it’s not respected. Carol is taught the value of following her gut over her orders by Nick Fury, yet she’s gone against orders from the start. Carol’s mentor represents the anti-theme of keeping your inner emotions in check, yet in the final fight he’s screaming at her to fight as her true self, just so that she can instead calmly blast him away in a cool twist. It’s as if Carol and her effects on others around her are above the central thematic purpose.

Wonder Woman is all about the evils of mankind as well as Diana’s deficient perception of it. She believes that humanity has been corrupted by the God of War and has to learn the hard way that it’s not so simple. That’s the point of the story. It doesn’t always show Diana in perfect light, no, but a theme should exist above characters rather than the other way around.

Thirdly, the empowering message represented by Carol is on the nose and can thus seem preachy. The central message is that it’s extra difficult for women to flourish in a man’s world, which occurs as it sounds: Carol meets random men who tell her to smile and more men who tell her what she can and cannot do and how she should and shouldn’t act. While none of it is necessarily unrealistic, it is so obvious that it can sound more like a lesson than a film.

Wonder Woman discusses the same topic of being a woman in a man’s world but in a more indirect way. Women are represented as Amazonians, whereas men are represented by the World War I era as a whole along with its standards and rules. The movie gets to speak about being a woman but in a smarter, metaphorical manner. Story should always go before message.

Charlie’s Angels – The Case of Empowerment, Part II

Charlie’s Angels tried to ride the wave of female blockbusters with a timely action reboot in 2019. Unfortunately, the outcome was less than optimal, to the point where the director publicly accused male audiences of not supporting the movie. And whether men truly are at fault or not, the bigger issue seems to lie in the movie’s obsession with incredibly strong leads…

Firstly, the heroes are so empowered and skillful that they lose individuality. All three Angels are extremely talented in everything, from physicality to strategy to technicality, which in theory does make them all strong but in practice destroys their uniqueness. What’s so special about one Angel’s fighting ability if the others can match it? What’s so special about another Angel’s smarts if the others also have it? What’s so special about talent if it’s ordinary?

There’s always a base level of skill in movies with agent heroes, sure, but it’s still vital to assign strength on an individual basis to ensure that people are individuals. Because at the end of the day, it’s like Syndrome in The Incredibles says: “When everyone is super… no one will be.”

Secondly, the empowering challenge faced by the heroes is superficial. The main gist is that men are an obstacle for women to overcome, and there’s no deeper dive into it. A male security guard singles a hero out for no reason, a male boss creeps out on a hero for no reason, and male enemies discriminate against all the heroes for no reason. Not once are these actions explored further with aspects like jealousy or shame or anything of the sort. Men seem to be a challenge to overcome simply on the basis that they’re men, which not only leaves it shallow but also weakens the narrative. Because let me guess: the man is actually the true villain?

While generating power from a real topic like the daily struggles of women can be great, there has to be more to it. If a security guard harasses a hero, it has to be due to something, like him feeling small after getting rejected by her. Real people have reasons for their actions.

Thirdly, the heroes’ empowerment unfolds as a zero-sum game and alienates the losing side. Not only do almost all men here do bad things because they’re men, but they’re also presented as inherently sinful beings deserving punishment. And punished they are. They get strangled and shot and crushed and tossed off buildings and stomped in the nether-region, and there’s even a running joke where the heroes wonder whether the guy they just hurt died or not. It is the filmmaker’s right to do this, yes, but there’s also a responsibility to understand the notion of biting the hand that feeds. Why would the people you’re putting down pay to see you do it?

Even if a movie is about propping one demographic up, it doesn’t have to come at the cost of putting the other down. It doesn’t have to be a zero-sum game, as is proven for example by The Aeronauts. The choice is ultimately yours but so are the consequences. You can make a movie ridiculing Scientology, but you can’t then expect scientologists to show up to support it.

Cruella – The Case of Empowerment, Part III

Cruella follows the journey of a young orphan woman as she rises to the top of the British fashion world. And in the wake of all the less-than-stellar female empowerment films before it, it is a much-needed improvement to showcase how the topic can be handled with grace…

Firstly, Cruella’s empowerment happens through a relatable goal. Her entire existence revolves around being a fashion artist to a point where it becomes an obstacle: she’s bullied at school for her unusual outfits, she’s dismissed at work for her non-traditional appearance and behavior, she’s disagreed with by fashion leaders about what fashion is. And despite all that, she keeps chasing her fashion dream without backing down and this way makes the narrative unfold. That’s how it should be. Not every viewer understands fashion, but they do understand having an aspiration and not letting anything get in the way of reaching it.

Cinematic strength isn’t a hero doing everything without issue – it’s the hero having a specific purpose and overcoming obstacle after another to fulfill it at any cost. That’s empowering.

Secondly, the empowering point is realistic enough to extend beyond the screen. The main message here isn’t that it’s okay for women to design fashion, because of course they can, that’s pretty one-dimensionally obvious. Instead, the message is that there’s no objective right and wrong in fashion. Cruella is constantly told by people in power that her style isn’t good because it doesn’t conform to current fashion standards, and yet, she remains faithful to it anyway. That’s the heart of the story, and it’s both believable and relatable. While the fashion aspect may not touch most viewers, all viewers can still relate to and find value in the underlying wisdom itself: that it’s okay to not conform to the world currently around you.

A message shouldn’t be just about what’s on screen but about the larger point represented by what’s on screen. And also, that represented point should be smarter than something that’s already self-explanatory. That’s how you find an empowering social point that’s worthwhile.

Thirdly, the empowerment is a non-zero-sum game that everyone can enjoy. Even though Cruella is a woman climbing the ladder of the fashion world, her journey is never about gender alone. Her boss at the store doesn’t put her down because she’s a woman but because he genuinely can’t see the value in her style. Her main opponent isn’t a man wanting to keep women out of fashion but rather a woman who dislikes the new-age style. Regardless of gender or anything of the kind, we can all get behind Cruella because being dismissed by people who don’t see your value is universal. Every win for Cruella is a win for us, no matter who we are.

Lifting one demographic up can and should be done in a way that lifts others up with it. If you bite a hand that feeds, it most often only ensures that the hand won’t come back... and the only way these woman-led blockbusters can survive is if audiences keep coming back.

Tomb Raider – The Case of Empowerment, Part IV

Tomb Raider is a 2018 adaptation of the rebooted video game franchise. And while it doesn’t exactly break the infamous video game movie curse – since it’s essentially a recycled version of the game – it does manage to build up a compellingly strong hero in form of the new Lara Croft. The secret behind her strength being that it’s born entirely from weakness…

Firstly, Lara’s inadequacy generates the struggle. From the very beginning, she takes quite a beating from the world around her, be it getting hit in the face in the opening shot or getting hit all over the body in multiple shots for the next two hours. And although this might make her seem weak on the surface, in truth the result is the opposite. Her inability to simply leap over the obstacles ahead means that she has to struggle more to overcome them, and the more she has to struggle, the more strength she appears to possess. And oh boy does she struggle.

Seeing Angelina Jolie’s Lara do crazy backflips over every obstacle may be cool, but seeing this new Lara barely pull her beaten body up a cliffside makes you care. That’s strength.

Secondly, Lara is kept at a disadvantage to grow her workload. She doesn’t have her usual dual-wield pistols or incredible fighting skills or even her family fortune, which means she has to work extra hard and find ways of using whatever limited resources to accomplish her goals. In a manner of speaking, she has to build the staircase before she can walk across it. That is her advantage as a hero, seeing as it makes each fight feel tougher and each jump feel longer and each success feel bigger. It’s her handicapped position that forces her to prove herself.

Angelina Jolie’s Lara has amazing built-in abilities, but when they’re stripped away for this new version, all Lara has left is herself. And when she, by herself, must face the same obstacles, it requires much more from her to overcome them. It requires more strength than before.

Thirdly, Lara is flawed and unexceptional enough to be relatable. Once again, this version of her is quite an overall step down. She loses her first fight, makes herself look like an idiot in public, gets ripped off by locals, and is struggling badly with her emotional scars. She’s far from perfect or perfectly cool. And that’s the very reason why the audience can easily get on board. Her shoes are close to the ground enough to jump into and tag along as she then heads off on her journey to learn from her mistakes and try to improve at any cost. She’s ordinary enough to not be over the audience but exceptional enough to take them on an adventure.

Even though characters are the stars of movies, it’s the viewers that the journeys are for. Sure, most people can’t relate to falling from a plane in the jungle or holding onto a parachute for dear life, but what they can relate to is the idea of getting in over their head and figuring out a way through nonetheless. And strong is the hero who can offer that close experience to them.

Tulsa King – Character Lessons From Taylor Sheridan

Tulsa King isn’t a movie or a planned part of this book but rather another modern western in writer Taylor Sheridan’s TV empire that I saw and had to include. Starring Stallone, it’s a story of an old-fashioned NYC mobster, Dwight, who builds a crime operation in a smaller city. And despite Dwight’s shady past and actions, he’s a hero you can’t look away from or not root for…

Firstly, Dwight gets s#!% done in a way that’s entertaining and admirable. Within moments of arriving in Tulsa, he stops at a weed shop and makes himself a 20% partner with his fists and words alone. Following his new financial gains, he goes to set straight a car-dealer who prevented him from getting a legitimate vehicle. With his new wheels, he convinces a DMV agent to cut him in line to renew his license. Overall, Dwight is always onto the next thing to do and he won’t stop until it’s done, in a manner that the audience can only dream of.

Think of it as a form of wish fulfillment – heroes who do are always easier to entertain with than heroes who don’t do. It’s up to you whether to take the hard way or the less hard way.

Secondly, Dwight stands up for the little guy to be likable. He hires a less-fortunate cabbie as his driver with fair pay, he apologizes to a good-guy guard he roughed up to make a point, and he cracks a car-dealer’s nose for not selling to his driver due to skin color. He’s not a good guy by any means but he is decent – as long as you don’t stand in his way, he’ll make it worth your while and chat. That helps him stay in the viewer’s favor despite his shady actions.

While a protagonist can be anything, the dark roads are easier to navigate with some form of redeemable qualities. Pretty much all audiences dislike things like discrimination, which is why it’s something you can use to make them love your hero even if they really shouldn’t.

Thirdly, Dwight has an emotional core to be relatable. Underneath that rocky criminal shell, he’s an estranged father who messed things up with his daughter and desperately wants to make it right. While it is obvious, it’s so for a reason. Most people in the audience have relationships that mean a lot to them, which is why Dwight having one makes him one of us.

Heroes don’t have to be total softies, but if they have nothing to fight for other than money itself, it gets empty fast. The emotional core of wants and needs is what gives it all a point.

Fourthly, Dwight stands by his beliefs in a manner that earns him respect. Yes, he murdered someone, but he paid his dues by sitting in jail without shifting blame. No, his old-fashioned views don’t conform to the modern world, but they are his views regardless. He doesn’t beg or bend or concede – he is who he is and he’s willing to weather the storm for it.

Deep down, audiences love heroes who stay faithful to their own rules. A guy who brings his own mug to Starbucks because he doesn’t like plastic… there’s just something about that.

Two Suicide Squads, One Difference of Irony

There may be a large number of differences between 2016’s Suicide Squad and 2021’s The Suicide Squad – which will be covered further later – but a key one among them is characters. The roster of squad members in the latter film is much stronger and less boring than in the former. And while a lot of that comes down to good ol’ flaws and arcs, there’s also another, more time-efficient weapon to set the latter squad on top: irony.

In Suicide Squad, characters are their external shells and nothing more. Killer Croc is a crocodile-man who eats people, Rick Flag is a US soldier who’s a soldier for the US, Enchantress is an evil witch who does evil witching, and Harley Quinn is a crazy Joker-like clown who does crazy stuff as per her source material gimmick. Most people are exactly as they seem and behave in ways you’d expect them to behave, which leaves them to be dull sums of their superficial parts.

In The Suicide Squad, characters are layered with irony. Peacemaker seeks to bring peace to the world as per his gimmick, yet in practice it means murdering every man, woman, and child in the way. It’s the stark difference between who he is and what he does that automatically gives him depth and layers. That’s what makes him and the others beside him more than meets the eye – be it a giant man-eating shark who acts like a little puppy longing for friends, or a professional assassin who’s afraid of rats due to his childhood, or an insecure manchild who can kill anyone instantly. People are more than the sum of their shells, not to mention also very entertaining and funny, thanks to irony.

Flaws and arcs are always the most effective method to create three-dimensional characters, like how Bloodsport goes from a lone wolf to a leader seeing Ratcatcher as a proxy of his own daughter. But when time is tight, irony is the surest and arguably the most efficient way to fill a character with layers. Don’t miss out on it.

CHAPTER 3

CHARACTERS: VILLAINS

A villain is what’s required to make a movie feel worthwhile. You can have every other aspect locked down to a T, but if there’s no kind of antagonistic force in play, it’ll probably amount to jack all. It’d be like a masterfully crafted chessboard without the opposing side, or a cool video game with nothing to do in its world. There are no hard rules on what an antagonistic force has to be – whether it’s human or animal or an element of nature – but it should always be there in some form.

Although villains do carry a multitude of variables same as heroes, the most basic key to creating a great bad guy is to not think of them as any different than the hero. A villain should be the hero of their own story: they should believe their own lie and have a strong motivated goal to actively pursue in a way that makes the narrative unfold. Use all you know about heroes to build your villain, seeing as it’s only the drastic nature of the villain’s actions as well as those actions’ incompatibility with the hero’s journey that makes them the villain.

Another constant among variables to mention is that, in most cases, a villain should belong in the story you tell. If your movie is about uncovering a series of holy murders like in Angels & Demons, the villain should probably have some kind of connection with religion. Not that it’s ever an absolute must, but it could feel weird to go through a religious investigation only to realize that the person responsible has nothing to do with religion and was killing people at random. A disconnect like that can easily come off as a letdown and even a waste of time, unless there’s something else about the villain to save the situation with. In general, the same way the hero is part of a movie’s larger point, so should the villain be.

So, in this chapter, let’s look at a multi-colored roster of great and less-great bad guys of cinema and try to see what, in their own ways, makes them so. Here’s a few things to keep in mind when building your own ultimate antagonist.

The Core Ingredients of an Ultimate Antagonist

Instead of limiting the first crime scene to just one, let’s start by examining a few of the most well-known movie villains as well as the qualities that define them. These may not be the only great villains out there but for their own reasons they’ve earned a place on the list…

Firstly, a strong villain is the thematic opposite of the hero to lift their battle beyond physicality. Joker in The Dark Knight represents the thematic side of chaos: he kills without thought and neglects rules and believes all people to possess a nature of violent anarchy like him. The opposite thematic side is order represented by Batman: he believes in the rule of not killing and that deep down most people are good. It’s this thematic opposition that their clash is about – it’s a clash of beliefs. Joker tests Batman not only in body and mind but also in philosophy. Should you kill? Should you not believe in people? Their battle decides the answer.

Whatever a hero stands for, the villain should stand for the opposite. That makes their fight about more than the fists being thrown… it makes it a fight of two contradicting worldviews.

Secondly, a strong villain is motivationally understandable to come off as a real person. Thanos in Infinity War seeks to snap away half of life from the galaxy because in his mind it’s the only way prevent life from going extinct due to dwindling resources. We don’t necessarily agree with his methods but we do understand the reasoning behind them. When we see what happened to Thanos’ home because people wouldn’t listen, we see his side of the story. We see him as more than a mere movie bad guy to defeat and forget.

While a villain doesn’t have to be relatable, in most cases they should be understandable. Things often stick to the mind the most when they make sense.

Thirdly, a strong villain is intimidatingly menacing to appear as a threat. Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs spends most of his screentime in chains, yet he’s still able to shake the audience and other characters with the detailed way he talks about eating someone’s liver. He’s a man we grow to respect and fear so much that when he breaks free, we can feel a prickly sense in the neck. Whatever plans he has in store, they’re no doubt of the most awful kind.

A villain’s threat level depends on the story, but it should always exist to some extent, as it’s only by being worried about the villain that we can worry about stopping them.

Fourthly, a strong villain has a personal effect to feel uncomfortably close. John Doe in Seven may not show up until the third act, but his actions there alone leave such a deep mark that his presence is felt long after the credits. What began as an investigation into murdered strangers, ultimately becomes something so close to the skin that it can’t be shaken or showered off.

A villain can have plans of all shapes and sizes, but at some point, they should touch the hero on a personal level. There is no war like a war that comes home.

How to Introduce an Antagonist

Since first impressions are always the strongest, that begs the question of how to introduce a villain in a way that leaves a mark. The obvious answer is to just write an amazing first scene like Tarantino did with Hans Landa in Inglorious Basterds. But for those who aren’t Tarantino, there are other, more specific ways for a bad guy to make an impression as well…

Firstly, a villain’s intro can be built on the buildup of the hero. At the start of the PS4 game God of War, the hero, Kratos, is established to be incredibly physical: he’s a God of War who destroys ghouls and giants with his bare hands. And soon after Kratos’ buildup section, a skimpy man known as the Stranger shows up at his door. He’s the villain, and his first action is what you least expect: he beats Kratos’ ass in hand-to-hand combat. And thus, as if by magic, all the physical character buildup work done for Kratos now applies to the Stranger as well.

The requirement for this method is that the hero and villain’s strengths exist in the same area. When the hustler heroes get outhustled by the villain at the start of Now You See Me 2, it’s a big deal. But if the hustler heroes were instead physically beat up by the villain, it would mean nothing because physicality isn’t what’s been built up.

Secondly, a villain’s intro can be built on prior actions. In Seven, John Doe doesn’t show up until the end, and even then, it’s only to get arrested. Yet, that moment still ranks as one of the most memorable bad guy entrances ever, simply because everything experienced beforehand has led to it. The heroes have come across one sickly crime scene after another to shape the image of the one responsible – an image of a vicious, methodical murderer who clearly isn’t all there. And when John Doe finally shows up in the flesh as the one responsible, it’s like his flesh is made up of all those terrible things we’ve seen and now attribute to him.

This method only works if the appearance is consistent with the buildup. A bloody man calmly strolling into the police station does run in line with the murders. But the heroes of Now You See Me 2 meeting the villain who outhustled them only to see that it’s some dumb idiot… the connection isn’t there, we simply can’t attribute what we’ve seen to the villain.

Thirdly, a villain’s intro can be built on hatred and its unforgiving nature. Kirill in The Bourne Supremacy initially seems like just another forgettable agent, until he does something horrendous: he kills Bourne’s girlfriend. And from that moment on, he inherits an emotional bullseye which, like Bourne, we won’t let go of. Our focus in the movie does not waver until we make this guy pay for what he did. In modern terms, he lives rent free in our heads.

While hatred can be a tool, it can also become destructive to the point of turning the audience hostile. PS4’s Last of Us 2 introduced the villain in such a cruel manner that the players grew to despise not only her but also the game itself. So be careful when playing with fire – it burns.

Wonder Woman – The CGI Monstrosity Problem

Wonder Woman is definitely one of the better films in the DCEU but also a textbook example of its biggest flaw, which is the CGI monstrosity villain. While the CGI itself may be more of a symptom than the cause, it does play a major part in the cause, because as is seen with the evil god Ares here, a CGI bad guy makes it very easy to ruin all the work done beforehand…

Firstly, Ares opposes the hero only externally and not internally. Most of Diana’s conflict doesn’t come from beating up German soldiers – since we already know the outcome – but rather from an idea she can’t accept: the idea that humanity’s evil can’t be turned off with a simple flick of a switch. From the start, she believes that she can stop the grim nature of humans by ripping out one bad root, until she’s confronted with the heavy truth that it’s not so simple. But when Ares eventually shows up to prove that, yes, it’s indeed him who contributed to humanity’s evil, things become much easier. Diana no longer has to struggle with her internal conflict and can instead end things with her fists alone. Whoop-de-doo.

A hero’s fight against the villain on the outside is only half the battle. The second, more powerful battle happens on the inside, around a difficult idea that the villain represents. Without it, all you have is loud noise of fists banging.

Secondly, Ares isn’t a person with a story but a punching bag in someone else’s story. For the first two thirds, all antagonistic buildup goes to the German commander and his master of arms. And once the finale kicks in, they and the buildup done through them are kicked aside in exchange for nothing. Ares wants to destroy humanity but for no clear reason why, other than he’s an evil god doing what evil gods do, I guess. He has been hiding in plain sight the whole time, sure, but never in a manner that would build him for the end. There are no details about him to click in place once the veil is pulled, no backstory behind him to understand differently once his true nature is revealed. No, we just build up two villains and then switch them out for an empty CGI shell at the end.

If you want a big, loud third act battle against a CGI opponent, fine. But it can’t be only that – whatever you do in the earlier acts has to in some way contribute to the CGI opponent. A movie can’t be about a hero learning to play drums with a tough teacher and then going to the gym at the end to KO some local heavyweight boxer. That makes no sense.

Aquaman – The Significance of an Uncompromising Villain

Aquaman is proof from DC in a post-Josstice League world that they are indeed capable of featuring villains that function from start to end. Neither King Orm nor Black Manta exactly revolutionize the standard, but they do possess qualities that are useful to all antagonists…

Firstly, the villain goals are in direct conflict with the hero’s in a way that things can’t go unresolved. King Orm of Atlantis seeks to invade human lands to gain control of the earth, whereas Aquaman seeks to dethrone Orm to protect life in both worlds. Only one of these objectives can be fulfilled, which not only keeps the conflict alive until that happens but also keeps the direction of the movie clear: we’re heading toward the impending clash between Aquaman and Orm for the fate of land and sea. Thanks to that, even less attention-paying audiences who have no clue how Aquaman ended up in a dinosaur world can stay on board since they remember that “oh yeah, we need to get the thing to stop Orm’s invasion.”

It’s within the crossroads of two opposing goals that a story is found. Black Manta seeks to kill Aquaman as revenge unless Aquaman makes him incapable of seeking it – that’s their story.

Secondly, the villain motivations are just as strong as the hero’s to the point where there’s no compromise. Orm is sick of humans polluting his waters and slowly killing his kind, on top of which he sees Aquaman as the reason their mother was killed. Aquaman in turn won’t accept an attack on the masses including his human father, on top of which he sees Orm’s father as the killer of their mother. Their conflict is rock-solid enough to pass the Martha test: no magic words or deeds exist that would present an easy answer in the middle. Either Orm achieves what he’s after or Aquaman does so first. One or the other.

It’s the stalemate nature of a story that gives it the necessary boost. Black Manta loses his father due to Aquaman’s neglect, whereas Aquaman views it as karmic justice. The solution to that disagreement is a tough one.

Thirdly, the villains are in the right just as much as the hero, the only variable being perspective. Orm isn’t exactly wrong to attack humanity since they’re polluting his people’s home, but at the same time, Aquaman isn’t exactly wrong to dethrone Orm since war always brings misery and casualties. The movie may side with one perspective more but still never turns its back on the other, as is also the case with the mother. Aquaman is indeed the reason their mother died, yet Orm sits on the throne of the man who pulled the trigger. Both are justified in their side of the conflict, which is what makes it compelling to watch.

The greatest stories are split in two. Black Manta has a basis for his vengeance because Aquaman left his father for dead, while at the same time, it’s not Aquaman’s responsibility to rescue every murderer he comes across. Both have a point.

Doctor Strange 2 – What Turns a Strong Villain Weak, Part I

Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness answers the wet dream of all Wanda fans by taking her to her dark Scarlet Witch roots. Despite many strong qualities, however, there are some inherent weaknesses about her that keep her far from full potential…

Firstly, Wanda is a yoyo villain whose antagonistic drive snaps back and forth based on what the moment requires. Her goal is to drain America Chavez’ power, and once the deadline she gave Doctor Strange for handing her over closes, she goes sicko mode and massacres fifty people in the way. Yet, as she then gets her fingers on Chavez, she stops at the finish line to give Strange a chance to flee with her. And in this manner, Wanda keeps yoyoing between a lost cause and a rational anti-hero. She murders a squad of heroes, then spares Strange and his girlfriend. She drains Chavez’ power, then doesn’t actually drain it for ages so that Strange has time to come stop it. Her antagonistic drive doesn’t drive the film but instead gets driven by it.

A villain’s drive should only increase with time, and they should cross the point of no return only once. If your villain is still reasonable enough to talk things through, they probably shouldn’t execute a bunch of people before that as if death is trivial. Growing across an arc is one thing but yoyoing based on the needs of the plot is another.

Secondly, Wanda’s motivation lacks justifying foundation. The basis for her actions is to find her sons in another universe, which is weird for viewers who have never seen them before due to not seeing a TV show that introduced them. And instead of relying on that alone, the basis could’ve taken a more solid, present form like addiction. Had we at the start seen Wanda suffer from loneliness so badly that she obsessively uses her magic to live a shadow life in another universe with her kids until it’s no longer enough for her… that’d be understandable, that’s how addiction works. A foundation that’s seen is always sturdier than the one that isn’t.

Also, Wanda’s methods are unjust since there’s a simple answer to her issue: let Chavez take her to a universe where she can be with her sons. There are some excuses proposed against it but none of them are enough to repel the notion that Wanda is doing evil things mostly for evil’s sake. And when a shaky basis meets unjust methods, the result is poor villain motivation.

Thirdly, Wanda’s central strength is born through speech rather than practice. When Strange travels to another universe with Chavez, turns out that Wanda has the power to project herself into that universe physically. Not because that power has in any way been present beforehand but because in that moment the plot requires it and thus has another character explain it into existence – which associates its power more with the movie than Wanda herself.

A villain’s strength shouldn’t appear with the film’s words when it’s needed, but instead, in such a significant and practical manner that it’s attributed directly to the villain.

Love and Thunder – What Turns a Strong Villain Weak, Part II

Thor: Love and Thunder features another antagonist with great potential: Gorr, a broken soul seeking vengeance with supernatural abilities, played by an actor with supernatural acting abilities. And yet, similar to Wanda, he ends up losing most of his potential…

Firstly, Gorr’s ultimate goal doesn’t allow for progression. After losing everything due to being neglected by a god, Gorr gets an objective of killing all gods. And upon getting the upper hand on Thor in the first act, he can do just that: he can kill Thor and take his axe and use it to wish all gods away. Yet instead, he stops to quip around long enough to lose his upper hand, since if he at that point moved any closer to his goal the movie would already end. Thus, Gorr flees and goes to sit around for an hour until the plot is ready for him to get Thor’s axe. It’s a weakness that Sergio Leone addressed decades ago: “If you’re gonna shoot, shoot. Don’t talk.”

A strong villain never stops, and their goal should be built in a way that they don’t have to. Had Gorr’s true intention been to manipulate Thor to go get something from Zeus that he needs, then him not killing Thor wouldn’t be weakness but rather another step closer to his objective.

Secondly, Gorr isn’t faithful to his beliefs. His core drive is the loss of his daughter to godly neglect, coupled with a magical sword that corrupts him. And it is understandably consistent, until his actions touch many multi-cultural non-god kids living in Thor’s village. He kidnaps them, torments them like a sick bully, doesn’t save them from being crushed, and even sends CGI monsters to kill them. All of which reduces Gorr’s image as a three-dimensional father in mourning, especially since his actions are never about trying to convert the kids against gods, which in his mind would be helping them. His actions don’t even get acknowledged – at the end he has a sweet fatherly redemption, as if he didn’t just try to kill a bunch of children.

A strong villain stands by their drive with their head held high. Contradiction is okay and even useful but only if it in some way gets acknowledged, by the villain or the heroes. Elephants need to be called out, and corrupting swords and books aren’t enough justification.

Thirdly, Gorr’s being is mostly about the elements around him. His motivation isn’t his own: he kills the god behind his girl’s death right away, after which the magical sword corrupts him to kill all gods. His effects on the plot and characters don’t come from his own actions: the concern is always on the sword he carries or the shadow planet he waits on or the wishing well he will use. His personal value is nonexistent: it’s always about the power granted to him by the sword rather than the value he brings to the sword. Overall, Gorr isn’t his own person as much as he’s the film’s means to an end, like that cook being controlled in Ratatouille.

A villain should never disappear under the makeup on their face or the weapon in their hand. Their strength doesn’t come from the power they’re given but instead from how they wield it.

Endgame – What Turns a Strong Villain Weak, Part III

Avengers Endgame brings the Infinity saga to a successful end, but it’s also yet another showcase of the MCU’s villain problem, this time with their strongest villain to date. Somehow, Thanos of Infinity War is reduced to something much less…

Firstly, the villain lacks a presence for a long section of time and leaves that section empty. When Thanos gets beheaded at the start, the story is left with an antagonistic void, with no force to contend against. There are no evil deeds to stop, which is why the heroes don’t have much else to do than sit around. There’s no pushback from any direction, which is why key events occur in a somewhat forced and frictionless manner with random rats. There’s nobody to race against in the time travel section, which is why a lot of it is less about worrying for the heroes and more about reliving emotions with the heroes. All of this may fit Endgame just fine due to it being a ten-year culmination, but it also shows why an antagonistic presence is vital.

While every movie is different, most movies aren’t Endgame. And unless yours has a decade of emotional foundation to do the work on the villain’s behalf, it’s worth keeping this in mind.

Secondly, the villain loses the core qualities that built him. This new version of Thanos – who I call Thonos – is a poor shade of the one from Infinity War. Gone is Thanos’ emotional side in terms of his home and daughter, as Thonos never mentions his home and barely even notices his daughter. Gone is Thanos’ ever-active nature of pushing things forward, as Thonos waits for the heroes to collect and use the stones and then waits for his minions to go find the stones. Gone is the objective nature of Thanos’ fight scenes, as Thonos fights the three main Avengers not because he needs anything from them but just for the sake of fighting them. Gone is the logical basis of Thanos’ goal of killing half of life to save the other half, as Thonos’ goal is to save life by killing all life and then resetting it… even though by that logic he could just first wait and see if life will indeed even die off on its own.

The best comparison between Thanos and Thonos is that there is no comparison – one is a strong villain while the other is not so much. Even Thonos’ main objective isn’t his own, as he seeks to use the stones just because he sees that the future version of him did it and thus figures it’s his destiny to do it. No matter the angle, Thonos is like a dumb, two-dimensional caricature version of a much better villain. And while Endgame works for different reasons, the qualities that separate Thonos from Thanos are qualities you may want to watch out for with your villain.

Maverick – How to Make a Movie Without a Villain

Top Gun: Maverick brings back a franchise from decades ago, which means it doesn’t follow the usual big bad guy standards of modern Hollywood. There’s no rogue general whose drone army must be stopped or terrorists in the Middle East whose attack must be foiled. There’s no Thanos or Thonos, but there are examples of ways to replace them as Endgame did at times…

Firstly, momentary antagonistic forces push against the hero’s intent in individual sections. When Maverick tests the Blackbird at the start, a general comes to shut the program down and take the funds for his drones. That’s the section’s oppositional purpose – not to fight the general but to exceed his impossible demands to save the program and the jobs on it. In the same vein, the academy section isn’t about defeating the commander but about proving Maverick’s non-deadly plan as possible to save pilot lives. While Maverick only ever does what he intended to do anyway, it’s the pushback against it that creates the challenge and conflict. Much stronger than if there was no general at the start and Maverick tested the Blackbird for the heck of it.

When there’s no villain to give a scene purpose, there should be some substitute force to do so instead. The third act has no big bad guy for the heroes fly over to beat but there is resistance to beat in many forms, from time to terrain to advanced jet tech representing the anti-theme.

Secondly, key relationships have an unresolved problem to create conflict between heroes. Maverick doesn’t have to defeat a bad guy to save his crush, Penny, but he does have to fix an issue between them. She’s been hurt by him and it’s up to him to make up for it by proving things to be different this time. That’s the source of the conflict and drama in their scenes, with no need for an external force to generate it. It’s the relationship itself that needs overcoming.

If friends have no villain to go beat, there should be an obstacle in their bond to prevent them from being friends. Maverick and Rooster’s fight is mostly with each other, as Rooster blames Maverick for things Maverick blames himself for. That’s where the challenge and conflict and emotional drama in their scenes comes from. From them battling each other in various physical and non-physical ways until they can get over the reason they’re battling, together.

Thirdly, there are skeletons in the hero’s closet to boost his journey’s difficulty. Training the pilots isn’t easy for Maverick because Rooster’s presence brings up his trauma. He hurts so much from Goose’s death that he can’t trust himself with others, he’s so overprotective of Rooster that he keeps making things worse. And when he ultimately rises above his trauma to reign supreme – by pushing himself to the max to give the pilots a chance and by learning to trust Rooster’s choices – it is powerful to see. Beating the internal demons makes it worthwhile.

Making a movie without a bad guy to defeat isn’t the easiest task, but in case one wants to try, extra focus should go to the hero defeating bad parts of themself. In order to truly appreciate the climb a character makes, we have to see them at their absolute worst and lowest.

CHAPTER 4

PLOT

Plot is the sum total of all the events and the purposes behind those events that make up a film’s substance. It’s the narrative born from positioning the hero and villain with their wants and needs around the concept. It’s the difference between making toy soldiers shoot each other and having a more detailed plan for how the shooting unfolds in practice. While a story is everything that happens and has happened on screen and off screen – backstory and all – a plot is what the audience sees happen. A hero driving across country is story, whereas the hero having to stop on the side of a road to change a flat tire is a plot-event within that story.

Usually, the easiest way to perceive plot is to think of it in three parts: someone has to do something, to create a result of some kind, before something bad happens.

– A group of superheroes must find various ways to stop a purple space titan from assembling an ultimate weapon that snaps away half of life.

– A master-thief must build a criminal dream team to pull off a mind-heist over the course of a plane ride to be able to see his children.

– A teenager lost in time must make his young parents fall in love and get back to the future before his existence is wiped away forever.

What’s worth noting is that the importance of plot varies heavily on the movie itself and how fast it has to move. An indie character-exploration drama may not need a strong plot because the audience knows to expect a slower experience. But a big blockbuster aimed at casual audiences who can barely put down their phones… yeah… a strong fast plot full of occurring events is crucial because otherwise the phones will get an easy win.

So, in this chapter, let’s look at a handful of more or less plot-heavy films to investigate the most core elements of plot, along with various positive and negative aspects around them.

Dead Man’s Chest – The Vital Plot Organs, Part I

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest features a multi-threaded narrative with tons of active characters playing a part in it, which works so well that it was heavily borrowed from by Infinity War years later. And it’s no wonder since Captain Jack’s second adventure features all the key ingredients that make up a strong plot: G and S and U…

Firstly, there’s a clear Goal to answer the question of what the movie is which is a race to Davy Jones’ chest. Jack needs the chest and the key to open it to call the Kraken off his back. Will Turner needs the chest to save Elizabeth as well as to free his father from the Flying Dutchman. Norrington needs the chest to get his life back, Beckett needs it to gain control of the seas, whereas Davy Jones needs it because his heart is in it and everybody’s after it. There are countless different paths and journeys, but they’re all united by one ultimate destination.

A goal ensures that no matter what’s going on, the audience can retain a sense of movement and progression without getting lost. Why are we fleeing cannibals? To get to the chest! Why are we playing dice with Jones? To find the key to the chest! What’s with the key? The chest! Whatever the question, the answer is always right there, like with the stones in Infinity War.

Secondly, there’s a strong set of Stakes to answer the question of why the movie happens. If Jack doesn’t get the chest, he and his ship are Kraken food. If Will doesn’t get the chest, he loses both his fiancée and his father. If Norrington doesn’t get the chest, his life has no meaning. If Beckett gets the chest, that’s it for piracy and freedom. All journeys have something on the line to stress their significance. When Jack and Will and Norrington fight at the end, all of them must win and for explicit reasons why, yet only one can win. That’s why it feels like a big deal.

Stakes are there to ensure audience investment by putting up a bet much like in poker – the bigger the pot for each player, the better it works. Thanos is coming for much more than scraps.

Thirdly, there’s an intense Urgency to answer the question of when is the movie’s deadline. There is the larger plot side of it, with Jack being marked for the Kraken right away and Will leaving Elizabeth on death row and the whole thing being a race to the chest. But the same is also used in individual scenes and sequences. Jack has to flee the cannibals before the drums stop and he’s burned. The good pirates have to get to the Pearl before the bad pirates steal it. Governor Swann has to get Elizabeth out before their escape is noticed. The crew of the Pearl has to prepare for the Kraken before it strikes. The events have a fire burning underneath to crank up their level of intensity and hectic excitement, just like the narrative as a whole.

Urgency is there to speed characters up and reveal their true nature. When Will’s dad makes a hasty choice to join the dice game against Jones, it shows how much he truly cares. Time is reason, the lack of it is instinct, and a ticking clock is a rush like no other. Thanos comes now.

Days of Future Past – The Vital Plot Organs, Part II

X-Men: Days of Future Past not only features a familiar multi-threaded narrative but also involves the same foundational plot components: goal, stakes, urgency. And what’s interesting is that it’s the film’s nature of time travel that makes that happen almost by itself. Which is why, in some ways, it can be useful to think of every journey as a time travel journey…

Firstly, the goal takes the form of a pre-defined destination to give direction. As the future has been destroyed by power-mimicking Sentinels, Logan needs to head back in time to the moment that created them, the Paris peace summit of 1973. That place in time serves as the finish line for the first half of the journey and imbues all scenes leading up to it with purpose. Whatever happens in the scenes, there’s a constant sense of movement because it’s known that the scenes are moving toward the summit taking place in the next few days. The audience has that event to look forward to in a way that prevents them from getting lost or bored.

Think of it as a car ride with kids: unless the kids know the destination and their current position in relation to it, they get impatient. The casual audience is the same. So how can you pre-define the journey’s destination in your movie, even if the journey involves no time travel?

Secondly, the stakes are proven in practice for maximum impact. Opening in the future allows the cost of failure to be shown and it’s not pretty. Life is in ruin, only a handful of heroes remain, and the Sentinels kill mutants left and right because they’re too advanced to be stopped. That’s the basis for the fight and why it’s so crucial. If Logan doesn’t manage to assemble the heroes in the past and stop the incident of 1973, that grim future will come to pass. The journey feels like a second chance reset button, which gives it that strong sense of importance.

Think of it as a car seatbelt: everyone knows what it’s for, yet it’s only by experiencing what happens without it that one can truly value it. There’s no greater defeat than that which can and must be undone. So how can you establish in practice what’s on the line in your movie, even without a time travel reset button?

Thirdly, the urgency is born from the hourglass nature of the journey. Once Logan travels to the past, the current future keeps playing at the same time, which means that there is no time. The Sentinels are hot on the heroes’ heels in the future, Mystique is on her way to finish the mistake she started in the past, Magneto is throwing in wrenches to slow Logan’s efforts to stop Mystique. There’s a constant underlying hurry in doing what must be done, paired up with obstacles that only increase the required pace. That’s the truest form of intensity.

Think of it as driving an ambulance with a dying patient on board while a storm limits visibility and traction: it’s the combination of need for speed and the difficulty of speed that creates the rush. How can you use time to create that in your movie, even if there’s no time travel?

Eternals – When Plot Organs Go Missing

Eternals may have many good things going for it but being a Marvel blockbuster isn’t among them, as it bored casual audiences enough to become the lowest rated MCU entry. Poor Timmy Ten-year-old was asleep by the end of the first act. That’s what easily happens without GSU…

Firstly, the narrative isn’t driven by goals and is left aimlessly stagnant. The main journey is objective-driven but it’s constantly paused to explore character, whether it means flashbacks of hero backstory or dinner scenes of heroes sitting around. While character exploration is vital, sure, the issue is that it happens separate from the main journey. Learning about the heroes’ broken bonds in the past doesn’t advance the goal of stopping the aliens in the present, and that goal isn’t even tangible. What exactly must be done to stop the aliens? Kill them one by one or kill one source? And what’s the need for a team when Superman can clearly handle things alone? Answers may come later but it’s no use if the viewer is already so lost that they lost interest.

In bigger movies, you have to be able to juggle plot and character simultanously – Thanos sacrificing Gamora explores them as well as gets him to the next Infinity stone. Learn to do many things at once and avoid making up excuses saying that anything less is good enough.

Secondly, the narrative lacks clear stakes and thus emotional investment. The heroes from the start are shown to be overpowered gods who kick alien ass to the point where it feels like bullying. Even the weaker heroes aren’t in true danger since they can fight like John Wick on steroids or since a strong hero is nearby to save them. There’s no kryptonite or a consistent vulnerable side. One moment a non-physical hero can survive being lasered down from the sky, while next moment a non-physical hero gets knocked out by a rock. And when heroes aren’t understandable enough for their weaknesses and vulnerabilities to be understood, it’s difficult to fear for them or invest in their survival or care.

Stakes work best when they’re palpable. Instead of saying that an alien killed a hero earlier on, begin the movie with glimpses of it happening on screen. That’ll make it much easier to believe and take seriously later, instead of having to wait for the third act for the betting pot to appear.

Thirdly, the narrative has no urgency and is left slow. There’s no deadline for assembling the heroes since the aliens aren’t really doing anything, and even the flashbacks show that last time it took thousands of years to destroy them. Clearly, there’s no rush. And that allows the heroes to go slow, whether it means taking their time to get moving or standing around to watch musicals or chitchatting around dinner or flying on a plane when one of them is Superman. If the heroes aren’t in a hurry, neither is the narrative, and thus the runtime feels double its size.

The third act here does get much faster thanks to clear deadlines, sure. But if the two hours leading up to it feel like four hours, many viewers will have checked out long before.

Bumblebee – The Consequences of a Missing Plot

Bumblebee is arguably the best live action Transformers film to date, yet it performed poorly enough for the producer to make a bold statement: in future instalments, he wants more explosive action elements of Bayhem as seen in Michael Bay’s instalments. And while Bayhem can be great, what the producer should be looking at more is the plot, or lack thereof…

Firstly, there’s no plot because there’s no overarching purpose. The main gist is that a lonely girl finds a stranded alien robot and then… they hang out. That’s it. They’re not trying to fix the robot’s memory or find a way for him to call home or overcome any larger obstacles like so. No, they just sort of spend time in her garage and in the woods and at a beach and a cliff and so on, until the third act finally gives them something to do. One could argue that the big purpose is for Bumblebee to hide from the evil forces chasing him, but not only is that a passive purpose, it’s also not true because he’s not hiding. Mostly, the narrative consists of a girl and her robot spending days in a small town with no external point behind their actions.

If a producer feels a lack of explosions, it could in reality be a symptom of a lack of reason for there to be explosions. It’s the friction between two opposing forces that makes fire. And so, if there’s fire only in villain scenes because the villains carry a directional force, and no fire in hero scenes because the heroes don’t have any directional force at all… that could be the issue.

Secondly, the lack of an overarching plot purpose makes marketing difficult. How do you sell a blockbuster that consists mostly of scenes where heroes hang out? Sure, you can pack the trailer full of action shots of the heroes fighting soldiers and robots, and sure, you can present things out of context in the trailer like with the line of Bumblebee’s mission being about protecting the Earth. But you can’t fudge the truth. The truth that Bumblebee isn’t fighting as much as he’s running and hiding, and that he isn’t really doing anything to protect the Earth until the finale. While the scenes about character may be great, it’s still tough to sell them to a billion-dollar audience because you can only truly sell what’s there, which is characters hanging out. And to many casual viewers that’s not enough incentive to drive to the theater.

I was unsure at first whether to include this entry since I think Bumblebee is fantastic as is. The character drama is very well done, and it’s a joy to spend time with the girl and her robot as they interact. But since the film’s own producer thinks that’s not enough, it is vital for writers to at least be aware of the true cause behind the symptom. With general audiences, it’s much easier to sell a movie where heroes go on a journey to stop a villain, than it is to sell a movie where the heroes hang out until the villain eventually shows up to fight them. Just be aware of the type of movie you’re writing because with certain types it’s much harder to get attention.

Shazam! – How to Compensate for a Missing Plot

Shazam! mixes things up within the DCEU by delivering an experience much smaller and more character-oriented than the narrative-heavy spectacles before it. Yet, despite taking focus away from plot, it fairs just fine without it, by using alternative methods to do what a plot does…

Firstly, an external goal is substituted with a strong internal want to offer direction. When the orphan hero, Billy, gets the powers of Shazam, he doesn’t have anything meaningful to do with them. He mostly tests them out and uses them to buy beer. But what Billy does have is an unfulfilled personal urge: to find his mom who he was separated from as a kid. While that may not be as externally significant as stopping an alien from killing half of life, it is enough to form a destination to progress toward. Clearly, Billy is on a path to solve the mystery of his missing mom, and thus, the answer to that mystery is what the audience has to look forward to.

While a character’s want can never replace an external narrative need, it can cover for it. The villain, Sivana, doesn’t need his powers per se, but we understand why he wants them and why he can’t let Billy have his. And thanks to that we’re not lost – we know where we’re headed.

Secondly, events are born from personalities instead of forced randomness. When Billy defends his new non-friend roommate against bullies, there’s no external reason for it other than the fact that the narrative needs him to run off to get his powers. Yet we don’t see through it like that because the event is born organically from the bullies touching Billy’s nerve regarding his mom. That’s why he attacks and why what happens happens. It’s because of who he is. The event may not be born from external goals, but it doesn’t feel manufactured either.

When characters don’t drive the plot with their intentions, their personalities have to do it for them. Yes, Billy makes a mess with his powers for no reason other than because the story needs him to attract Sivana and make their clash happen. But no, it’s not forced, because it’s Billy’s age and his roommate’s obsession with superheroes that makes it all occur in a natural way.

Thirdly, overall purpose is created with thematic purpose. Since the main point here isn’t anything massive like an alien going as far as to sacrifice his daughter for cosmic balance, it could be forgettable. But the reason it isn’t is because that point comes from elsewhere: the theme of family. Sivana represents the negative belief that family is a weakness dragging you down, whereas the positive belief that Billy must learn is that family makes you stronger. And the point is for Billy to struggle with these rivaling thematic sides, until he finally learns the truth and beats Sivana with the help of his family. That’s what the film can be remembered for.

If there’s no way for a movie to have a big external point, a thematic purpose of some sort is a viable alternative. There are many crazy things to remember the Fast & Furious franchise for, but Vin Diesel simply grunting out the word family is definitely near the top.

Blade Runner 2049 – When a Narrative is not Enough

Blade Runner 2049 sends the replicant hero K to solve a dystopian mystery in a film that’s some of superstar-director Denis Villeneuve’s best work. And in spite of that, it did so poorly with general audiences that the sequel was axed then and there. Even my own dad was falling asleep in the theater next to me. A big reason being the untraditional nature of the narrative…

Firstly, the story lacks significant plot-events to maintain entertainment. When K goes to Wallace archives to get info, all it means in practice is that he walks to the front desk and follows a guy in and talks with someone. When K goes to get info from a memory designer, she gladly gives it for free. When K goes to get info from an orphan workhouse, he hits the leader in the nose once and gets full cooperation. Very often the plot-events carry hardly any sense of challenge or obstacles being overcome, as if the story simply unfolds without being made much out of. It’s a whole lot of walking and sitting and staring, with little in between.

An incredible visual look and atmosphere may be enough for some audiences but not for most. In script form especially, a story’s value comes from the value of the plot-events in it, and thus, it’s wise to make the events into more than something the hero can simply walk through.

Secondly, narrative threads are untraditionally unsatisfying and incomplete. Many of the central story-strands just sort of end – be it K’s AI partner dying for nothing, or K’s journey to become special ending in the opposite, or K’s captain sacrificing herself to no effect whatsoever. On top of which, some strands go entirely unresolved like the main villain. He reveals his true nature in a scene in the third act and is then never defeated or even seen again, as if his existence is just forgotten. While the plot does go refreshingly against the grain, it also has a very unfulfilling nature that many casual audiences aren’t used to or content with.

There is basis for pushing boundaries, but it’s also vital to remember that standards exist for a reason. General audiences do expect narrative strands to be in some way fulfilled and resolved.

Thirdly, the narrative content is very subtle to a point of getting invisible. The characters don’t express much emotion whether they’re humans or replicants. The story requires generating investment based on words like with replicants being enslaved in speech but never on screen. The ending relies on caring about characters met once and about relationships from the original movie. Goals, motivations, dynamics… all of it is buried deep within the screen. There’s a moment of sexual tension between K and his captain that’s barely noticeable, which is why many viewers don’t catch it or the purpose behind it. And in that case, is it of any use?

Text that reads between the lines is great but text that vanishes into the pages is not so much. Whatever a narrative is meant to convey, it should do so tangibly enough. A heartfelt story of replicants versus humans doesn’t quite work for viewers who can’t even differentiate the two.

Dune – When a Narrative is Enough

Dune is director Villeneuve’s next blockbuster after 2049, in which he seems to be the aware of his previous narrative “missteps.” Whether the film is better than the one before is up for debate, but it did perform much better with casual audiences by doing same things differently…

Firstly, plot-events are situations of conflict and challenge. On the desert planet of Arrakis especially, there’s a variety of obstacles for the heroes to overcome. They rescue the crew of a spice-miner from an incoming sandworm, battle an invading army, escape capture before being made into worm-food, and find a way across the lethal desert to the locals. There are incredible visuals same as in 2049, but the events that those visuals are part of are also used to their fullest, in such an exciting and significant manner that it’s easy for all audiences to get into them.

A story is the sum of its plot-events, which is why each plot-event should be made the most out of. What’s the point of a race-car engine if you don’t shift past the first gear?

Secondly, narrative threads conclude with some level of meaning. There is a deep melancholy side here similar to 2049, with the hero, Paul, losing everything and everyone from his best friend to his dad to his kingdom. But it’s never for nothing. His best friend’s death is an opening for him and his mom to escape, his dad’s death is a last stand effort against their invader, and his lost kingdom is what his journey will be about reclaiming. More often than not, there’s a larger, satisfactory purpose for things. It’s the Duke’s kindness toward the locals that convinces the locals to help Paul. It’s the subplot of Paul being a potential chosen one that leads to his and his mom’s survival when they’re kidnapped. And so and so on.

Think of it like what that one guy in Lost always says: everything happens for a reason. Casual audiences have so many things to spend their time on that they expect the time they spend to amount to something.

Thirdly, narrative elements are tangible enough to not get lost. Even though Paul’s mom seems cold for sending him to suffer at the hands of her religious leader, it’s the moment of her crying outside the door that makes it clear how much she really loves him. That clarity is vital for their relationship and journey to work on an emotional level. When Paul later screams accusations at her, we feel her pain because we know how much she cares and how stuck she is between religion and family. When they later work together by teaching each other survival skills, we feel their bond because we know how much they both care. But if we didn’t know, if we never saw the mom cry to get visual evidence of her love, the emotion wouldn’t be there.

Whatever you want the audience to feel, give them enough evidence to feel it. When Paul’s family gets betrayed and destroyed by those in power, there’s no doubt whatsoever as to what is the great injustice in need of correcting.

Prey – The Downside of Simplicity

Prey brings the Predator franchise to the 18th century with Native Americans in place of buff gunmen, and it’s a great example of how to use IP in a simple way to create something fresh. But on the other end, it’s a showcase of how too much simplicity can turn things transparent…

Firstly, events exist solely to set up value for later and are thus easier to see through. When the native hero, Naru, follows the trail of a strange beast, she falls into marsh in the woods and has to pull herself out. And while the scene itself works fine, it’s so barebones and unprompted that its intention is very clear: to set up the marsh as a battleground against the Predator. There’s really no other reason for the scene to exist, as it doesn’t advance character or relationships or even the plot since it’s a random spot of woods Naru stumbles into and exits. It could be cut out of the film and nothing other than the ending would change – Naru could’ve just walked straight to the river to meet the bear. It exists to assign value for the future and it’s evident.

In Back to the Future, the clocktower setup doesn’t happen alone but among other things that carry value in the scene itself. Had the marsh scene also developed Naru’s relationship with her brother or occurred as part of her bear escape, it wouldn’t be so obvious. Every moment should have value of its own in addition to the value meant for later. Because if a character exists solely to be healed by a blood-cooling flower in one scene, the strings will show.

Secondly, character journeys are very common, to the point of playing catch-up with expectations. Since Naru’s big brother is a talented warrior who saves her from dangers and inhabits the slot she wants to fill, the obvious result is that he gets disposed of so that she can rise to fill his slot. That’s what happens. Since the French hunters get no development beyond being evil invaders seeking their own benefit, the obvious result is that they become cannon fodder for the Predator in a cool action scene. That’s what happens. It’s just a matter of waiting.

Viewers are different and some know less than others, sure, but it can still be useful to identify the most usual routes of a journey and consider taking another. We’ve all seen bullies who don’t believe the hero about a danger pay the price so many times that we know it’s coming.

Thirdly, the hero’s thematic journey lacks pressure. Naru wants to prove herself as a hunter instead of being a gatherer like other women in her tribe, yet there’s no reason for it. She’s already allowed to neglect her womanly duties and go hunt without repercussions, she’s already loved by her family the way she is without feeling like she has to earn it in any way, she’s not required to defeat the Predator since it’s only a threat to those who threaten it. Naru’s journey of empowerment mainly just kind of happens because she wants to be empowered.

In It Follows, the thematic journey is about facing the past. The monster will keep coming for the hero and those behind her forever, until she learns to let her friends help her defeat it and her deepest fears it represents. If a hero’s thematic journey isn’t born from a pressuring force behind it like so, you run the risk of being seen as a message more than a movie.

CHAPTER 5

THEME

Theme is the central idea and subject matter that a movie most of all is about. It’s the main question the experience is meant to answer and the belief it’s meant to affirm. It’s the truth that the hero is aware of but isn’t ready to accept until they’ve gone through their journey of growth to see it in new light. Overall, theme is like the movie’s narrative sun that all other elements revolve around, and it can take any form and be about any topic, from human nature to the upsides and downsides of love to humans versus machines to the dangers of believing everything you read in a screenwriting book bought from a Youtuber. Any topic imaginable.

The easiest way to think of theme is to think of it as the internal side of the journey – a thematic journey… the emotional, spiritual, philosophical arc unfolding deep within the story:

– A boy’s favorite toy suffers an episode of destructive jealousy upon the arrival of a new space toy, until he can find the value in sharing.

– A vigilante’s belief in human nature is put to the test upon the rise of a clown criminal representing the worst of humanity, until he can prove the clown to be alone.

– A humanoid robot travels into the past to protect a woman and her son while also serving as a momentary father for the son, in a way that blurs the line between humans and machines.

Most of all, a theme is required to unite a movie’s contents into one consistent package. A movie where the hero goes to fight a war in one half and returns home to work in customer-service in the other… that on its own is a mess of two different movies. And the way to fix that mess is to tie both halves together under one thematic message, like for example that both war and customer-service are a battle in their own way. Not the cleverest of knots, nope, but what did I say about the theme of putting too much trust in a Youtuber’s book?

While theme does get touched on in many other chapters here as well, in this chapter let’s look at a couple theme-efficient movies to learn some key aspects about the topic exclusively.

King of the Monsters – How to Utilize Theme, Part I

Godzilla: King of the Monsters represents my ideal approach to adaptation, which is marriage of two sides. The director is a big Godzilla fan and knows what the IP has to offer, whereas the writer isn’t a fan and cares only about making a good movie for all. And in the same vein, the movie itself is also a great showcase of how theme can combine many things into one…

Firstly, theme links characters into a united exploration. While the title obviously refers to big titan monsters, it also means the human side. The villain, Jonah, brings death wherever he goes, the US launches a nuke the first chance they get, humanity as a whole is killing the earth. The anti-hero, Emma, may be a caring mother on the outside, yet it’s her obsession of making the loss of her child have meaning that drives her to monstrous acts, from getting people killed to releasing the biggest monster of all, Ghidorah. That’s the central topic here: monsters come in many forms for many reasons. Godzilla is a titan but it doesn’t mean he’s a monster. Emma’s ex-husband Mark is a human but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t murder Godzilla if he could.

It’s much less of a mess to explore all characters through one lens rather than three sets of characters through three lenses. You just have to find the right lens that fits them all.

Secondly, theme combines goals into a united plot. The usual issue with these monster flicks is that only one side matters: either the titans do stuff and the humans are inactively boring, or the other way around. Here, those sides are the same. The human hero goal is to find and get the MacGuffin before it’s used to wake Ghidorah, while the titan hero goal is to find and destroy Ghidorah before he awakes. The human villain goal is to wake titans around the earth to purify it, while the titan villain goal is to assemble the titans around the earth to purify it. Both humans and titans can actively push the plot at the same time because what they seek is the same.

To sort out a mess of objectives, find something above them to sort them. The finale here could’ve been even stronger if Mark had fought Jonah when Godzilla fights Ghidorah – since it’d be the same fight with double the force – but it works as is. Still, I wish Emma’s initial goal had been to wake the titans to kill Godzilla as revenge for her son. Missed opportunity.

Thirdly, theme groups characters and actions under two rivaling beliefs: balance and destruction. Balance is the idea of humans and titans living in harmony, while destruction is the idea of the earth belonging more to the other. That’s the central question that’s fought around, with the villains representing the latter answer and the heroes taking a journey to the former answer. Emma believes in the scorched-earth method at first but ultimately learns to dial back. Mark hates titans at first but ultimately learns to accept the value of co-habitation. While Mark and Godzilla aren’t a team, grouping them on the positive theme side allows us to root for them as one team with full force rather than as different teams with a small force each.

Instead of many different journeys to root for and against, simplify it with two sides around an idea. We love to support and we love to oppose. Anything less and it’s not the same, usually.

How to Train Your Dragon 3 – How to Utilize Theme, Part II

How to Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World brings the childhood friendship of Viking-prince Hiccup and his dragon pal Toothless to a mature end. The film is excellent at theme as a whole, but it also has an amazing ability to handle theme in ways that aren’t so obvious…

Firstly, the thematic truth takes shape during the journey to let the viewer partake in the search. The main thematic point here is love – that’s what the villain opposes and the hero wrestles with. And initially, love seems to mean sticking by your friend’s side no matter the challenge. That’s why Hiccup’s village keeps harboring dragons despite running out of room and why Hiccup goes to the ends of the earth to be a better pal to Toothless. But once it’s this conception of love that puts Toothless and other dragons in harm, the real truth is realized: maturity means flying on your own and mature love means letting it happen. In order for the humans and dragons to have a future, they must pave that future on their own, and once they finally separate at the end to do so, the journey to find that thematic truth is completed.

Presenting a thematic message is good but having it be found over the journey is much more so. It’s the assured knowledge of something that makes re-learning it in a new way feel big.

Secondly, the theme of mature love touches nearly everyone and everything to make the experience laser focused. Hiccup and Toothless have their women and kingly responsibilities to honor. The villain weaponizes relationships and keeps himself immune to them. Jonah Hill’s character has the hots for Hiccup’s MILF mom and wants her to see him as a man. Hiccup’s uncle has a childlike fear of tiny dragons that he needs to overcome. Even the villagers as a whole need to grow and move on from their old home as well as from their dragons. In one way or another, most people and things and events tie into the topic of maturity and love.

Doing something with theme is effective but loading your whole movie in one thematic gun-barrel and pulling the trigger is a direct hit like no other. So pack as much in it as you can.

Thirdly, the theme is opposed with a strong anti-theme. Similar to Godzilla, the thematic question of love is divided into two beliefs. The negative belief, or the anti-theme, is that love is a weakness – and it does initially seem so. The heroes get in trouble because they care about dragons, they’re not ready for the villain because he distracts them with a dragon love-interest, they keep losing because love is used against them. And that’s where the thematic power of the journey comes from: the hero doesn’t give in to the lure of the anti-theme but instead fights to prove the positive side as superior. In the finale, it’s Hiccup’s love for others that gets him rescued while the villain has nobody to rescue him. The anti-theme may have seemed stronger so far but it’s ultimately the positive belief of love being a strength that reigns supreme.

True thematic power comes from two opposing sides of belief around a subject. The negative belief represented by the villain may seem easier and better, but the more challenging positive belief that the hero must learn eventually turns out to be the correct answer.

CHAPTER 6

STRUCTURE

Structure is the manner in which a film’s contents are ordered and appear. It’s the choices between establishing the hero’s flaw before or after the theme, and between introducing the main conceptual idea in unison or separate from the villain, and between ending the midpoint in either success or failure. It’s the map of the movie containing all the paths and turns and events and pit-stops leading to the conclusion.

There may very well be more guides written about structure than any other part of screenwriting. Go type “Blake Snyder’s Beat Sheet” on Google and you’ll get page-exact instructions on what should happen where. And honestly, guides like that can indeed be very useful so long as they’re used as a big-picture tool to form a structure rather than to copy the exact pages. If a script’s theme is established on page 5 and catalyst on page 12 and midpoint on page 55 and so on, the reader might very well see through the magic and scoff.

The modern three-act Hollywood structure usually divides into four acts. That may not make sense at face value, but it’s because the second act is cut in half to make it easier to manage and prevent from getting stale. In most cases, a film’s structure should be thought of like this:

– Act I: The Launch

– Act IIa: The Effort

– Act IIb: The Downfall

– Act III: Redemption

While it is exciting to break standards, it’s also vital to remember that standards exist for a reason. Act IIb should most often end in defeat because most movies are about victory, and the longest way to the top is from the bottom – the steeper the climb, the better. Rules can be bent and broken freely, but at one’s own peril, and only after one has mastered them. So, in this chapter, let’s investigate some of those established structure rules in various contexts to decide whether they should be followed or broken.

The Force Awakens – The Modern Hollywood Structure

Star Wars: The Force Awakens mastered the art of the reboot-sequel with such financial success that other IPs are trying to copy it to this day. It may be the Hollywoodest Hollywood movie of all time, even to a point of feeling like it was made in a lab. And, good or bad, that does make it the ultimate example of a cinematic structure aimed at all modern audiences…

Firstly, the plot and its direction are established immediately. Following Luke Skywalker’s disappearance, the First Order has risen to power, and the way to defeat them is to deliver the map of Luke’s location to the Resistance and find him. All that’s clear by the first scene and already the viewers know exactly what they’re watching and why. No lost impatient kids in the car asking if we’re there yet – they can see the progression themself. JJ Abrams does seem to love mystery-box MacGuffins so much he’s probably married to one, but they can do the job.

Secondly, the heroes are established through instant in-action likability. Poe is an upbeat fighter pilot putting himself in harm to help the galaxy, Finn is a First Order slave-soldier resisting commands, Rey is a lonely orphan-scavenger yearning to do more with life. All the heroes are introduced as such active and industrious underdogs that the common viewer can’t help but be tricked onto their side. It won’t win any writing Oscars but it can get the job done. When Finn and Poe’s relationship is first built upon the situation of them having to work together to escape the First Order ship, it gets you invested in the relationship right away.

Thirdly, the leap into the journey happens through a clear line of no return. Before the break into the second act, both Rey and Finn could drop out of the journey: they could leave BB-8 on its own and scatter to live a life outside the plot. But once they run onto the Millennium Falcon to escape Tie-Fighters with BB-8, there is no going back – they’re all in. Rey does always talk about going back to Jakku, but she’s never free to do so, not until the journey is complete. There is no leap like the one with nothing behind or below.

Fourthly, the midpoint is a checkpoint that makes things worse. When Rey and Finn get to Maz’s palace with Han Solo, they’ve completed objective B: they’ve gotten the map to the Resistance. But the movie’s larger objective A still remains: to use the map to find Luke. The idea behind dividing the main objective into two is that by completing one at the midpoint, you complete the movie’s first half in a way that maintains a sense of progression. On top of which, the stakes for the second half are raised when the First Order uses its big gun to blow up the Republic. We’ve gotten past the first stretch of road, and the road only gets tougher ahead.

Fifthly, the third act is a journey from defeat to victory. Things don’t look good at the end of act two, as Rey is captured by Han and Leia’s corrupted son and the First Order charges up their big gun to blow up the Resistance. And from this moment of all-is-lost begins the final ascent to the top, which is a formula you’ll find in most movies but for good reason. Movies should be emotional rollercoasters, and the longest way to the top is always from the bottom.

How to Begin a Movie, Part I

The very first choice to make in a script is how to start the script. And without limiting the examples to one film, here are a few different types of starts to use and the effects they carry. These techniques aren’t mutually exclusive or in way exhaustive, and they might range from first scenes to first shots, but they are what I’ve identified and decided to share in this book…

Firstly, beginning with a mini-movie gives a taste of the upcoming experience. Inception opens with a sequence that’s the entire film in condensed form: a mind-heist taking place within layers of dreams. All the central, special elements of the journey ahead are on show but in a superficial way that requires fleshing out later, like in an ad made to hook the audience. This is a good idea for high-concept movies that are sold with the specialty of their concept.

Secondly, beginning in media res entertains with things already in motion. Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol opens with an agent jumping off a roof and being assassinated for the thing he carries. It’s not yet clear what that thing is or even what’s going on, but it all seems exciting and important enough to get the audience on board to learn the full picture. This is a good idea for action movies that by definition are expected to deliver exhilarating action.

Thirdly, beginning with a placeholder scene establishes the stakes in practice. The director’s cut of the original Blade Runner opens with a blade runner questioning a replicant, only to be shot and killed by him. And while the blade runner isn’t our hero and the replicant isn’t our villain, the point is that they may as well be – the scene establishes that blade runners like Deckard can be killed by apparently friendly replicants just like that. This is a good idea especially for horror movies that need their deadly boogeyman to come off as deadly.

Fourthly, beginning with a bookend image conveys the overall point behind the movie. Dawn of the Planet of the Apes opens on Caesar’s eyes to convey the notion that the story is told from the apes’ POV, which it also ends on. The Prestige opens on a pile of identical hats to convey the notion of duplicates, which it also ends on. This is a good idea for more intelligent and theme-heavy movies that want the thematic journey to be a process of discovery.

Fifthly, beginning with a bookend scene ties the experience together no matter its all-over-the-place nature. The Social Network opens with Zuckerberg sitting on a date with a fellow student, Erica, who doesn’t play a role in the journey ahead. She’s not a real person nor is there proof that Zucc being dumped by a girl is what really initiated things – the movie could’ve functioned just fine without her. Yet, her inclusion is key because it gives an anchor to this story that jumps through years’ worth of events and characters. When Zucc at the end sits down to send a friend request to Erica to build on the first scene, the story’s heart is clear: Zucc’s not a bad guy, but he didn’t do a great job of being a good guy either. This is a good idea for bigger movies that benefit from an emotional framing device to encapsulate the experience.

The Dark Knight – How to Begin a Movie, Part II

The Dark Knight has a fantastic launch into the story, and not only because the Joker pulls off a cool bank-heist. More so, it’s because the entire section leading up to the inciting incident of the mob kitchen scene is dedicated to one thing: the status quo and its destruction. Stories are about change and the way this movie sets that change in motion makes it matter…

Firstly, the world is established in its natural habitat that the story changes. The current state of Gotham is that Batman has put crime under lockdown to a point where criminals are out of business. The dealers on the streets won’t deal, while the supervillains like Scarecrow who do get beat up and arrested. And due to this reigning status quo of order, the Joker shows up to push change by offering the mob a solution in form of chaos. That’s the external point of the narrative: the Joker turning Gotham on its head by unleashing chaos while Batman tries to stop it. And for that narrative to work or even make sense, the current status quo of order must first be established as is. There can be a fight for Gotham only if it’s known what Gotham is.

Think of it as a day in the life of Gotham City – a day that shows how things are now so that the launch into the plot can matter. The mob’s money being stored away with Lau matters because Gordon has been chasing it for a while. The mob’s reliance on the Joker matters because they’re being litigated and backed into a corner. Lau matters because he’s not just a Chinese face on TV but a potential Wayne Enterprise partner. External change makes a difference only if there’s a current state of things to be changed.

Secondly, characters are established as people with value to bring into the story of change. The Joker has been robbing banks and committing crimes left and right, which in itself isn’t enough to affect Batman but is still important to build the Joker up as a person… that he’s selfish, intelligent, unpredictable, ruthless, capable. Had he just shown up to the mob kitchen out of nowhere to propose the initiation of the plot, neither the mobsters nor the audience could take him too seriously since he’d have no value yet. But because he enters the kitchen with the buildup of having robbed from the mob, he earns his time at the microphone. He earns his spot in the narrative as well as his chance to become more than the measly bank robber he currently is. The change initiated by the Joker has worth because the Joker has worth.

Think of it as a day in the life of the Joker and other main characters. Why does the narrative of Bruce Wayne trying to give his mantel to Harvey Dent and have a life with Rachel matter? Because before that narrative begins, it’s shown that Bruce isn’t able to have a life due to his mantle. The change that Bruce seeks with Harvey has value because it’s known what that value is for Bruce: if Harvey doesn’t succeed, there goes Bruce’s chance at a normal life. That’s the point of the change. That’s why narratives need an initial status quo for the change to affect.

Venom – How Not to Begin a Movie, Part I

Venom has quite a few weaknesses in total but perhaps the biggest of them all is the opening. While the opening does indeed establish a status quo as it should, yes, it’s handled in such an unfocused manner that it ruins both the beginning and the launch into the narrative…

Firstly, there are multiple status quos with multiple resets in momentum. The first opening introduces the symbiotes that crash on Earth and the businessman villain, Carlton Drake, who owns the spaceship. The second opening introduces Eddie Brock’s life with his fiancée Anne and how he as a reporter ambushes Drake about medical test deaths. And the reason these are two separate openings is because they don’t connect. Eddie’s accusations at Drake don’t have anything to do with the space crash, nor do Drake’s medical tests have anything to do with the existence of the symbiotes. The movie begins as one thing and then begins again as another. And then yet again as another when there’s a six-month time jump into a third status quo in which Eddie has lost Anne and his career while Drake is doing human tests with the symbiotes.

A story should begin and get underway. If a story begins and begins and begins to a point of taking 17 minutes to get to the real beginning where things can finally begin to get underway, it’s like a broken car. One that has left the audience numb with its false prologue starts.

Secondly, the status quos aren’t born on screen and thus lack value. Eddie is said to be a great investigative reporter, yet all he does is ride his bike and waffle nonsense into a camera. Anne is said to be a top lawyer, yet the only evidence of that is her suit. Drake is said to be a bad guy by Eddie, yet with zero basis until Eddie’s belief in it leads him to read about it in an email. These current norms are so weak that when the plot starts to build itself on them, it crumbles. What’s the big deal with Anne losing a job we never saw her do? What’s the big deal with Drake having done tests that never happened? Why would the burden of exposing Drake be trusted to Eddie when he’s never shown any competence to get it done? Huh?

A status quo exists only if it’s there on screen, and a narrative can be about changing the status quo only if one exists. There’s no one without the other.

Thirdly, the older status quos are a redundant waste of time. The heyday and fall of Eddie and Anne’s love happens way too quickly to invest in, and it’s only when they’ve separated that Eddie’s feelings for her become real. Drake’s deadly human tests have zero established basis, and it’s only when he’s testing the symbiotes on humans that his dark intentions become real. And so then what’s the point? Why have three beginnings when their work overlaps? Why spend 17 minutes to lay a foundation that gets laid down afterwards anyway?

Multiple prologues are usually more trouble than they’re worth. If there are elements that must have begun before the movie begins, see if there’s a retrospective way. And if many beginnings is a must, at least connect them enough to make their status quos work as one.

Robin Hood – How Not to Begin a Movie, Part II

Robin Hood is a 2018 reboot of the titular hero, which suffers from Venom’s problem of many disconnected beginnings. There’s a voice-over opening of Robin and Marion falling in love, another opening of a Crusade war in Arabia, and a third of Robin returning to Nottingham to have lost everything from where things are set in motion. One movie, multiple starts…

Firstly, the beginnings aren’t one because emotional motives don’t carry over. The gist is that Robin’s been drafted to fight in Arabia where Arabic John loses his son to English invaders and tails Robin to Nottingham after he’s dishonorably discharged. Together they then plan to stop the war by stealing the taxes funding it, collected for the Church by the Sheriff. And it’s in no direct way fueled by the war section: Robin’s motives are limited to England, whereas John already lost his family to a soldier who’s never dealt with. There’s no pre-existing internal basis for their fight against the Sheriff, especially since it’s not even the Sheriff’s war but the Church’s. How would stealing taxes from one town stop a nation’s war anyway?

Openings unite when there’s emotional value to unite them. Had the soldier who killed John’s family and discharged Robin been part of the main story in Nottingham, the heroes’ motivations of vengeance born in the war section would’ve carried the necessary value over.

Secondly, the beginnings aren’t one because the villain and the conflict don’t unite them. When Robin gets drafted to the war in the initial opening, there’s no interaction with the Sheriff. The Sheriff doesn’t draft Robin unfairly or personally or anything – Robin simply gets a draft letter as one does. Meaning that when he returns to Nottingham four years later, there’s no pre-existing conflict between the hero and villain, which is why it has to be built from scratch anyway. Especially because, again, the war isn’t the Sheriff’s but the Church’s. And if their initial conflict isn’t real and the discharge from the army has no consequences, why bother?

Openings are one when their central conflicts are one. Had the Sheriff drafted Robin with ill intent in order to steal his riches and/or wife for some reason, that battle born between them in the initial opening would’ve glued the opening together with the overall story.

Thirdly, the beginnings aren’t one because relationships don’t survive through them. In the initial opening, Robin and Marion’s love is established with quick shots and voice-over, which isn’t enough. Then, once he returns from war, their relationship is over and must be built again anyway – meaning that their bond may as well have been built fully in the present while filling in the blanks of their past. And so, if Robin has no significant ties with the townspeople or the Sheriff or anyone else upon entering the present, what’s the point of the past?

Openings connect when relationships connect them. The bond between Robin and John built in the war is a meaningful part of the present and in that regard justifies the war sequence. Had there been more bonds like that, maybe the Venom problem could’ve been avoided.

Rogue One – When a First Act Doesn’t Exist

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story was apparently such a mess at first that Lucasfilm needed master writer-director Tony Gilroy to come in and save it. And while a lot of the film was indeed saved, a casualty of the process was the first act. It doesn’t feel like a proper first act as much as it feels like a crossing bridge the filmmakers wanted to speed over as quickly as possible…

Firstly, the plot imposes actions on the hero rather than the other way around. Jyn Erso is in jail because she is, she escapes jail and goes to meet the rebels because the rebels break her out and take her, she sets out to find Saw Guerrera because she’s told to. Overall, Jyn isn’t a hero on an adventure but rather a prisoner of an adventure… literally: she spends most of the first act in handcuffs. Which isn’t the type of protagonist that’s too interesting or compelling to watch. If the hero cares too little to move on her own, why would the audience care?

Pushing the hero through the events of act one does save time and get to the main journey faster, but it also destroys the building blocks of the journey. The first act should be an adventure as much as it should lead further into the adventure.

Secondly, narrative elements are delivered verbally rather than in practice. Many of the central factors exist only as words, from Guerrero’s conflict with the Rebels to the development of the Death Star to Jyn’s skills and value as an operative. Even the main plot catalyst, which revolves around a defected imperial pilot carrying information about a flaw in the Death Star, is fairy dust. The pilot never gets any information and never escapes the Empire to defect and never does anything of the kind. Instead, the movie just shows his face and says all that out loud as if it alone is enough to get the audience on board for the journey ahead.

Establishing things with words is indeed faster but it also leaves the words confusing and empty. The audience will invest in the journey only if the first act gives them enough evidence to do so. It’s like Tarkin himself declares: “If saying it would only make it so.”

Thirdly, events and locations are skipped across without anchoring substance. The first act isn’t made up of scenes but more so of moments of information moving the plot forward. Jyn being in jail exists just to convey that she’s in jail, without any obstacles to overcome or choices to be made in jail. Cassian killing the guy informing him of the defected pilot exists just to convey that information, without any proper sense of their relationship or the significance of Cassian’s action. Rebels break Jyn free and that’s all it is, the defected pilot meets Guerrera’s men and that’s all it is – events simply flicker past the screen with barely any inherent value.

In Ghost Protocol, Hunt is in jail for a reason and his escape serves that reason. Had Jyn been in jail for a reason – like to break out the defected pilot somehow imprisoned there, which would ultimately cross her path with the Rebels – it would’ve made the event itself something. A first act should always be something itself, instead of being a mere speed-bridge to act two.

Fant4stic Four – Time Jumps as a Pitfall

Fant4stic Four reboots Marvel’s old-school quartet with a new, much more grounded and grittier look. The first half of it works quite well, but it’s at the midpoint where the whole thing self-detonates, thanks to a one-year time jump. Turns out that time jumps not only reset momentum and tension, but when handled poorly, can carry other harm as well…

Firstly, the jump resets emotional journeys and their value. When the heroes get their powers around the midpoint, it’s a very gruesome and scary change for them to wrestle with. Yet once it’s suddenly a year later, all that wrestling is gone since they’re already used to them. They may not all like their powers, but the experience of change born from the powers is ruined. It’s an entirely new state of norm where arcs have already jumped ahead: Sue has learned to question authority, Johnny has found a purpose, whereas the bond between Reed and Ben has crumbled. The roads have been traveled without the travel ever having taken place.

Change in stories has no value if it’s jumped over. Characters being something will never be as emotionally powerful as characters becoming something.

Secondly, the new change after the jump lacks basis. When Ben gets sent to capture Reed, it should pack power since it’s their first meeting after Reed left him a year ago. Except that, since we never saw Ben struggle with the consequences of being left or with the hate that grew in him, the meeting is built on nothing and it’s just CGI fighting. Same with other conflicts. Sue is mad at Reed for leaving despite never even acknowledging that he left, Reed searches a fix for his mistake despite never agonizing over his mistake, and Johnny doesn’t want to stop serving the army for some reason. Even the plot of using the teleporter to undo the powers happens without a clear reason to undo the powers, except with maybe Ben since he’s a rock.

The engine of conflict and emotion and intention can run only with gas in the tank. If things happen with nothing real underneath, it’s nothing but things happening.

Thirdly, the jump leaves the conclusions with nothing to conclude. The villain attacks the Earth to protect his alien planet, yet it’s not clear how the Earth would be a danger to his planet since that narrative was forgotten after the first half. The heroes must learn to use their powers as a team, yet doing so isn’t a clear issue since they never had time to try. The triangle of love-rivalry between the villain and Reed and Sue comes to a head, yet with no result since they all got separated before it could be properly built. The fate of the Earth is at stake, yet we don’t know a single person on Earth since we’ve been locked elsewhere. Many elements are concluded, sure, but none with a tangible-enough form for the conclusions to matter.

Endings are about finishing all central narrative threads, and if a time jump shifts focus onto a whole other set of threads at the midpoint, all there is to finish is half-baked ideas.

Endgame – How to End a Movie

Avengers Endgame pulls off the impossible by concluding its decade-long saga with a worthy third act finale. While the third act does have an excess of Marvel CGI, as a whole it’s handled with such skill that it keeps you hooked from the start and leaves you satisfied at the end…

Firstly, the ending is a rollercoaster flipping between positive and negative. The Avengers finish the second act in victory, but it all goes to crap in the break into the third act as Thonos bombs them into the ground! The heroes survive and find the Infinity gauntlet, but Thonos’ monsters come for it! Cap and Tony and Thor are finally able to challenge Thonos together, but he’s still too much! Cap lifts Thor’s hammer, but even that’s not enough! Yes! No! Yes! No! It’s a constant emotional tug-of-war that has the audience sighing in relief and gasping in fear in an increasing manner. It’s a ride of excitement and exhilaration like no other.

Films should be emotional rollercoasters from the beginning, but at the end, the coaster’s intensity needs to be cranked up to the max. There’s nothing like the primal human rush of going from a sure loss to victory. Cap… behind you… the portals… everybody’s here!!!

Secondly, the ending is built on stakes that are a certainty. When the Avengers have to keep the Infinity gauntlet from Thonos’ hands, the cost of failing to do so is what already once happened: Thonos will snap his fingers and people we care about will turn to dust. We’ve had to experience that failure and its horrible consequences first-hand, which is why we know that we can’t let it happen here at any cost. Our final battle is a second chance to fix our past mistakes, and that’s what makes the battle of the most crucial kind.

Not every movie can use time travel, but still, every movie should establish the reality of the final stakes in practice. It’s only when we know and feel for certain what is at stake that we can fully understand its value and why to fight for it.

Thirdly, the conclusion is a collection of puzzle pieces falling into destined slots. The mad titan seeking to snap the universe to dust is snapped to dust. The struggling leader of Asgard realizes he’s not meant to lead Asgard. The man lost in time leaves to spend his life in his own time. The billionaire recipient of an extra life ten years ago uses that life to save everyone else. The conclusions come in such poetically fulfilling ways that although we didn’t necessarily see them coming, in retrospect we can’t imagine them to have come in any other way. The finish isn’t always positive, with death and loss being a big part of it, but it just feels so right that one can’t help but leave the theater satisfied. The pieces find their place in their defining roots.

No matter the genre, all movies should offer some level of closure. Whether it means poetic justice like Jafar being sucked into the lamp in Aladdin or vigilante justice like Alejandro killing a family in Sicario, elements should end near whatever it is that made them begin.

Spectre – How Not to End a Movie

Spectre is a lesser entry in Daniel Craig’s Bond series for more reasons than one, but it’s the end where most of the pain is felt. If Endgame shows how to stick the landing, this movie shows how to trip over the edge of the ramp and stumble down the hill. Once Bond pulls off his fiery escape from Blofeld’s compound and heads into the finale, things go south fast…

Firstly, the transition into the third act is forced and clunky. After Bond and Madeleine flee capture and blow up Blofeld’s lair, they return to London to put a stop to Spectre’s network. And what happens next is that both Bond and Madeleine get captured by bad guys yet again. Within minutes, the heroes go from one situation to the exact same situation, only now in the third act. Sure, Bond gets caught on purpose to find Blofeld, but if that’s all he needs to do, why not do it at the compound when Blofeld was running off? Why fly the helicopter to look for him in London when you’ve got him by the balls then and there? It’s like the movie pauses at the end of act two to change the background for act three while the audience has to watch.

The break into a finale should come from the hero launching into one last mission of effort. If the hero can complete that effort at the end of the second act, what’s the point of the third?

Secondly, the external challenge of the third act is nonexistent. Once Bond magically breaks free from capture in London and finds Blofeld in the to-be-demolished MI6 building, he’s faced with the ultimate obstacle of finding Madeleine inside the building before it blows. And that’s all it is: he runs across empty hallways and finds Madeleine in a closet and drives them away on a boat as the building collapses. That’s it. Sure, there is some danger involved, but the physical activity itself is something my mom could do. Literally just run up some stairs and jump onto a net? How the hell is that the finale challenge of a Bond film?

The level of external difficulty does depend on the movie, but a finale should always be where the hero must push themself to the absolute max. Anything less is a letdown.

Thirdly, the cross over the finish line is built on no kind of obstructing flaw. As Bond and Madeleine drive the boat down the river Thames, Bond must shoot down Blofeld’s chopper before he can flee. Which in itself is a tough finish to cross, except that it hasn’t been established to be tough for Bond. Just the opposite, not long ago he was shooting enemies football fields away and destroying an entire compound with a single shot – dropping a chopper with a full clip shouldn’t be an issue for him. And that’s why it feels like nothing when he does it. He simply makes the shot with no larger meaning attached to the shot. Yippee!

Had this been the ending of Skyfall, it might’ve worked since there Bond is established to be a remnant of his former self, and thus, making the tough shot would’ve signified his return to form. Crossing the finish line has meaning only if the hero’s action of doing it has meaning.

Gods of Egypt – A Guide to a Terrible Hollywood Blockbuster, Part I

Gods of Egypt is a 2018 “blockbuster” about gods living among men in ancient Egypt, and overall, it’s pretty dumb and bad. What makes it a special kind of dumb and bad, though, is that it’s such a generic Hollywood snore-fest that it’s as if the studio itself made it. No writers or directors or filmmakers – just a clueless executive pushing all the wrong, generic buttons…

Firstly, the movie opens with voice-over exposition instead of a powerful image or situation. Nothing like starting off with a verbal history lesson explaining everything about the world and its backstory. The audience can go to sleep in minute one. Nice!

Secondly, the heroes’ defining traits and skills don’t get established in practice but instead with dialogue when they’re needed. The main gist with the god hero, Horus, is that he never misses, and thus it’s a big deal when he misses his throw at the god villain Set in their first fight! Or it would’ve been, had Horus’ aim gotten introduced beforehand. All that actually happens is that he misses and then Set says, “I thought you never miss.” Not too convincing.

Thirdly, the heroes have a superficial love interest to ground them. Both Horus and the human hero, Bek, have a girlfriend, which is meant to make them likable since it means they’ve got someone in their lives. Except, of course, it doesn’t because the girlfriends don’t get any proper development and are left being super-hot shells in skimpy clothing, as if their main purpose of existence is to serve the male heroes. It’s like one of the girlfriends even says: “I have only my smile to offer.”

Fourthly, the inciting plot incident lacks proper motivation. Set shows up to criticize the King of Egypt – his brother – by saying that he has never accomplished anything as a king, which is weird since they live in a utopian kingdom with a thousand years of peace. But things need to get moving somehow, so for that reason alone, Set kills the king and takes over, whatever. The catalyst into the plot feels so forced and nonsensical that so too does the plot.

Fifthly, the first act is split in two with a year-long time jump which resets momentum along with everything else. Set has turned the kingdom into a workaholic sweatshop by charging people money to get to the afterlife, Horus lives in exile and has lost his girl to Set, while Bek works at a construction site and has also been separated from his girl. It’s a whole new status quo that undoes the previous one in a way that requires more time to establish, much like a second beginning. And of course, that establishing is done with more voice-over exposition.

Sixthly, the break into act two happens with many verbal MacGuffins that overcomplicate an otherwise simple journey. Bek brings Horus one of his missing eyes of power, and instead of their adventure being about seeking the other eye to be able to confront Set, there’s loads of other stuff as well. They need to find Water of Creation to extinguish Set’s Flame – neither of which we’ve ever heard of – and they need to locate a Sphinx as well as a guy to help with it. Instead of one main destination to progress toward with checkpoints on the way, it’s a mess of destinations that makes it unclear what we’re currently progressing toward and why. It’s like the movie treats the audience with its plot the same way Mark Wahlberg treats federal agents in The Departed: “Feed them s#!¤ and keep them in the dark.”

Seventhly, the stakes of the plot are left confusing by saying them to be one way and showing them to be another way. Set does paywall the afterlife to make people work hard to build his kingdom bigger, yes, but it’s nothing new since the massive kingdom must’ve been built somehow to begin with. Set does go to war against other gods, yes, but it’s not even clear who they are. So why exactly is it so crucial for us to take Set down? Oh right – Bek’s hot girlfriend who we barely know is in trouble! Nothing like a shallow damsel in distress to carry the stakes!

Eighthly, the good parts are separate from the journey and serve no purpose. When Horus and Bek fight giant snakes at a temple, it’s not because they need anything from the temple but just because they happened to spend the night there. When Horus and Bek witness a space-worm battle, it in no way advances their current quest but is just a cool foreshadow lightshow. Nothing like reducing the value of your best stuff by making it inorganically pointless!

Ninthly, the action lacks fresh ideas and is copy-pasted from older films. The Matrix might’ve come out two decades ago, but apparently it’s not too late to parody it as is done here in the waterfall fight. Why bother generating new ideas in the script phase? Just write: “They fight.”

Tenthly, skills and power-levels are all over the place to the point of ruining the plot. Horus’ goddess girlfriend has the power to make men do anything she commands as long as their heart doesn’t belong to someone else… which begs the question of why doesn’t she simply make Set stop? Set has an ex-girlfriend, sure, but all he does to her is kill her and sleep with another woman as his queen – I wouldn’t exactly call that true love. Why doesn’t Horus’ girlfriend at least try to use her power to save the day? Well, because the movie would just end.

Eleventhly, the break into the third act happens by force rather than through character. When the heroes reach Set’s fire-pit, Set himself shows up to whoop their asses. But then, instead of simply finishing the heroes off when he can, Set leaves them alone to be killed by his trap which of course doesn’t work. It’s like characters are motivated by the knowledge of there still being a third act left rather than their own motivations. Spectre would be proud.

Twelfthly, the MacGuffins driving the second act don’t get resolved. All that stuff about the heroes needing to find Water of Creation to extinguish Set’s Fire before they can go get Horus’ missing eye? Yeah, none of that ultimately amounts to anything or matters. Instead, the second act is concluded by leaving those very things driving it unconcluded. Nothing like going on a journey that turns out to be a waste of time until the final act.

Thirteenthly, the villain gets a hint of three-dimensionality way too late. When Set in early third act meets his father, Sun God Osiris, his terrible actions are revealed to have some understandable motivational drive: all he wants is for his neglectful dad to see him. At this point it’s way too late to matter, yeah, but still early enough to piss the audience off with the idea that there’s a better version of the movie somewhere out there. #ReleaseTheDadCut.

Fourteenthly, the stakes of the finale come from a big CGI monstrosity that shows up to wreak havoc. Since Set wants to live forever for some reason (?), he aims make that happen by bringing in a massive space-worm to destroy the afterlife and death itself (??), which the worm will do by drinking up all the water from the Nile (???). It’s the usual terrible blockbuster finale where a blank CGI creature threatens all existence while barely anything around it makes sense.

Fifteenthly, the conclusions to the character arcs are fake and underserved. In the climax of the final battle against Set, Horus has to make the ultimate choice: save his missing eye or save Bek. And of course, he saves Bek to signify his change from a selfish god to a god of the people, which in the process makes him regain his godly power without his missing eye. Huh? Not only is that weird since the missing eye has always been established to be the only way for Horus to gain his power, but it’s also empty since he’s never been shown to not be a god of the people. Sure, he’s gotten impatient when Bek has annoyed him, but never has he been shown to sacrifice human lives. It’s not change as much as it’s an illusion of change.

Sixteenthly, the ending is all smiles and games to a point of making no sense. The heroes get their girls and the world is saved and everyone is happy. And also, as the new King of Egypt, Horus changes access to the afterlife back to good deeds instead of money and makes humans build statues of himself… even though the entire third act was built on gods not having control over the afterlife or death as well as on Set being evil because he makes people build statues. Roll credits! Franchise cancelled!

I, Frankenstein – A Guide to a Terrible Hollywood Blockbuster, Part II

I, Frankenstein is a 2014 epic tale about Frankenstein’s monster surviving to present day to partake in an eternal war between demons and gargoyles. That sentence alone may generate a lot of mixed feelings, but what’s key is that the movie is another Hollywood “blockbuster” stumbling into so many generic pitfalls that it’s like it was made by a clueless executive…

Firstly, the good old voice-over exposition beginning. Nothing like learning the fine details of the hero’s backstory and personality and skills through words. Just say out loud what happens even at times when you also show it – nobody watches movies to watch them, right?

Secondly, extraordinary elements appear out of nowhere without any establishing buildup. When Frankenstein’s monster – aka Frank – buries his creator in a cemetery, he gets ambushed by a pack of demons who in turn get ambushed by living gargoyle-humans. There’s no preparational work done to set up the fact that, in this world where Frankenstein’s monster exists, demons and gargoyles exist as well. They just show up, as if the audience will simply accept every non-traditional and confusing conceptual element thrown at them.

Thirdly, the hero is a passive shell who needs to be pushed by the plot. When Frank gets taken to the gargoyle headquarters, the gargoyle queen explains the details behind the demon-gargoyle war and how Frank can help. Frank doesn’t care, though, so he immediately leaves, not to do anything else but more so to pointlessly hang out in the woods until the plot eventually comes to get him once again. Unlikable as well as boring – what a winning combo!

Fifthly, the hero is emotionally blank and thus difficult to relate to in any way. Frank has no aspirations or hopes or intentions or anybody/anything in his life, which means that the audience can and will care just as little as he does.

Sixthly, characters lack proper introductions to encapsulate their essence and instead just appear like everything else. When Captain Jack Sparrow in his first appearance stands proudly on a sinking boat with his eyes tightly on the Navy’s ship, it gives a strong first impression of who he is as a person. Here, people show up either to explain things or to have yet another CGI fight, to a point where they can barely even be told apart from one another.

Seventhly, the hero’s skills and abilities aren’t earned or justified. Frank gains expert combat talent during his centuries-long hangout in the woods, and it’s built on a single shot of him standing in place to swing some sticks around. Right, that’ll do the trick! Now it makes total sense how he defeats hordes of demons with those sticks!

Eighthly, there’s a 200-year time jump at the end of act one to reset all momentum. By now, the genius behind this method should be clear to everyone reading – there’s nothing like beginning the plot not where it begins so that you can begin it again later! Imagine having a first act that at some point doesn’t feature the text “xxx weeks/months/years later”.

Ninthly, action sequences aren’t driven by character. When Frank gets taken back to the gargoyle headquarters as a prisoner, the place gets attacked by an army of demons, which leads to a massive battle. A battle in which Frank has mostly nothing to do since he’s still a prisoner in the prison room. It’s just a bunch of CGI noise with legions of random demons and gargoyles clashing together. Timmy Ten-year-old will be jumping in his seat in awe!

Tenthly, action sequences go against story logic. The gargoyles are said to live among humans in secret to protect them from demons, and yet, the very first big battle that unfolds does so out on city streets – with bright fireballs and tall pillars of heavenly light that every human citizen will see. The action makes no sense in the context of the story… unless this alternate reality also happens to include the element of all humans being blind?

Eleventhly, the motivations driving the second act are hollow and not real. Frank’s main mission is to retrieve his creator’s lost notebook, despite never paying any interest in it before. The gargoyles’ main mission is to stop the demons from harming humanity, despite never interacting with a single human or conveying a proper reason why they protect them. The demon king’s main mission is to use Frank’s book to awaken an army of the dead to enslave humanity, despite never giving any hints as to what he needs slaves or the dead for since he already has legions of demons. There are motivations, sure, but with no tangible basis.

Twelfthly, the supporting female hero gets no development outside of being an attractive trophy to be won. A human doctor named Terra works in the disguised demon king’s lab, unaware that she’s aiding him in the destruction of humanity. And that’s all she is: she has no life or relationships or existence beyond that laboratory and what she does in there. She is very hot and superficially intelligent, though, so I guess there’s that!

Thirteenthly, character behavior isn’t realistic, which makes characters seem even more fake. When Terra gets crept up on by Frank in a dark alley, she does what no women crept up on by big scary-looking men in dark alleys do: she goes with him to help him. Movie magic!

Fourteenthly, plot information is repeated. Once Frank has become best friends with Terra in the alley, he fills her in on all the same necessary backstory from before. It’s exposition that the audience has already once been force-fed, force-fed again. Cool! Sure, Aaron Sorkin may call repeating information the biggest crime a writer can commit, but what does he know?

Fifteenthly, the central relationship is fake and emotionally flat. After Frank has fought a demon that attacked them, Terra softly patches his wounds from the fight, in a scene full of sexual tension that shows them to have feelings for each other. All mere minutes after meeting in a dark alley! The monster who cares about nothing and no one falls for the first human woman he talks to, and the human woman who meets a monster becomes instantly sure he has a warm heart deep inside that she can bring out. I mean, I guess I get the guy falling for the first girl he comes across, but the other way around not so much. And thus, the relationship’s emotional purpose of proving that even a heartless monster can have a heart feels quite bogus.

Sixteenthly, the locations are repetitive and uninspired. Up to the end of the second act, almost every scene has taken place in an empty alley or an empty street or an empty room or whatever dark empty place. Why overthink your locations narratively or aesthetically when you can simply have the hero fight his enemies in a whatever abandoned warehouse?

Seventeenthly, the internal side of the hero’s journey is built on nothing. Once the third act kicks in, turns out that Frank is after Frankenstein’s journal not to keep it from the hands of the demons but to use it to build himself a Frankenstein’s monster’s girlfriend. Which is strange seeing as for the last two hundred years he’s never tried or even wanted to be around anyone, not to mention that he already found a human girlfriend. It does give Frank’s external journey of getting the book an intimately personal side, yes, but it’s way too out of nowhere to buy into.

Eighteenthly, the final stakes are built on an army of CGI monsters coming to life to take over the earth. Nothing says blockbuster finale like fighting a CGI-reliant villain as he’s in the process of unleashing a CGI army of the dead in a big CGI room to attack all of humanity.

Nineteenthly, the deadline of the finale is arbitrary and inorganic, which defeats its purpose. The ticking clock that Frank must race against at the end is a progress bar showing the progression of the CGI monster army being awakened. Now, why would there be a Windows progress bar for awakening the dead and how could it even work as a deadline since there’s no consistency to its progression? Who knows – what matters is that there’s some kind of an illusion of a ticking clock! That alone should be enough to take care of intensity, right?

Twentiethly, the MacGuffin does get concluded but in an unfulfilling way that feels like nothing. The ultimate purpose of Frankenstein’s journal chronicling all his secrets is that the bad guys use it to find the right amount of voltage to use in awakening the dead. And that’s all there is to the journal. What? That’s it?? That’s everything the journal was needed for???

Twenty-firstly, the hero’s character arc concludes in arbitrary words and images. When all seems lost, the demon king prepares Frank’s body to be the host of a demon soul since Frank himself has no soul due to being a monster. Yet, when the demon soul arrives, it can’t get into his body! And as Frank then wins the battle, the king’s astonished final words reveal the truth: “You have a soul!” That’s all there is to Frank’s arc. Not only is it not established how he suddenly got a soul, but it was also never established that he didn’t have one in the first place. The movie just has characters in the beginning say that Frank has no soul and then has another character say the opposite at the end, along with some gobbledygook CGI. Arc complete!

Twenty-secondly, the ending relies on the same as the beginning: voice-over exposition. Nothing like seeing the hero stand in place as his words try to make sense of the nonsensical story that just unfolded and foreshadow a sequel that never comes. True Hollywood!

CHAPTER 7

SCENES & SCENE TOOLS

A scene is where all the contents and elements of a movie take a practical form. It’s everything that happens when the hero has to stop on the side of the road to change a flat tire, from the moment they pull over to the moment they either change the tire or move on to another step in getting it changed. If characters are the pawns and the concept is the board and the theme is the rules and the plot is the moves, then a scene is what physically unfolds at each turn of the game.

The key requirement for writing good scenes is to understand the difference between a scene and a moment. A husband walking into the kitchen to find a note from his wife saying that he can find her in the neighbor’s house… that’s not a proper scene. That’s a tiny passing moment of visual and/or verbal information moving the story along. A scene version would be:

A husband storms into the kitchen to ask his wife where his work-papers are so that he can drive to work and give them to his boss before his project is killed along with people’s jobs on it. And since the wife is not there, the husband has to barter with his daughter – who isn’t talking to him after being grounded the day before for posting half-nudes on TikTok – to tell him where she went.

A very extreme example no doubt fueled by my lack of experience with family dynamics, but the difference between the versions is palpable. One is a fleeting moment carrying story value only, while the other is a scene with individual entertainment value on top of the story value.

The easiest way to think of scenes is to think of them like Aaron Sorkin does: as intention and obstacle. Someone needs something, and someone or something stands in the way of getting it. It’s a situation, it’s a challenge, it’s conflict, it’s drama, it’s a scene. And when a scene works well, it manages to both explore character and advance the plot at the same time.

So, in this chapter, let’s look for effective and not so effective ways of handling scene-work, along with a variety of means and mechanisms that can be used to improve a scene.

The Tools for Building an Ultimate Scene

Before moving into more specific examples from specific movies, let’s first go through an overview list of scene tools and their effects, to have context for later as well as to get a sense of what you can do and to what end. This list is just something I’ve piled for myself over the years and it’s in no way exhaustive, but it should be useful to anyone nonetheless…

Conflict is two opposite forces clashing together to create drama. At the end of Civil War, Tony finds out that Bucky killed his parents and seeks revenge by taking his life, which Bucky’s BFF Steve can’t allow. This dynamic of push-pull is the heart of all conflict and should in some way be present in nearly every scene. And what makes it especially strong here is that all perspectives are justified. Steve can’t let Bucky die since they’re best friends and since his actions weren’t his own, but at the same, it doesn’t change the fact that Tony’s parents are dead because of Bucky’s actions. The drama feels massive because there is no easy solution.

Sexual Tension is the interaction between two or more characters in a sensual game of will-they-won’t-they that arouses a tingly sensation. Her is a movie built almost exclusively on this, but the scene that takes it to the next level is when AI Scarlett Johansson meets Joaquin Phoenix in a proxy body. After all the fun foreplay, now physical touch is finally introduced to their dynamic... oooff! Using horniness as a writing tool can sound like cheating, and honestly, it’s so effective that it may as well be. It’s perhaps the only viable substitute for traditional conflict.

Deadline is the ticking clock evoking urgent intensity within a scene. Mission Impossible: Fallout is a great example of the effect of constant hurry and also that the hurry doesn’t have to be a literal clock. When Ilsa fights Lane at the end, Benji is left dangling with a noose around his neck, meaning that not only does Ilsa have to beat Lane but also do it before Benji’s a goner. That’s the sauce that makes the audience scream “come on come on come on!!”

Theme is the thematic element within a scene that ties it to the big picture to draw value from it. In Fallout, the core argument of belief is over whether innocent life has individual value or not, with the latter, anti-theme answer being represented by the villain. When Ethan has infiltrated the bad guys and is about to witness a cop being murdered, he has to reassess his belief: does he let this one innocent life die to save a billion lives? That contextual connection is what allows the scene to be part of something larger and more meaningful.

Choice is a decision made by a character that reveals them emotionally and advances the plot. When Bruce chooses to go save Rachel instead of Harvey in The Dark Knight, it proves his feelings for Rachel to be even greater than his wish to have a life by ceding Batman’s mantle to Harvey. That’s what makes it hurt extra bad when the Joker turns out to have lied about the locations. And since it’s Harvey who is saved, the narrative becomes something very different than what it would’ve been had Rachel been saved instead. Emotion and plot, united by choice.

Payoff is the method of paying off a story element set up before to evoke satisfaction. Back to the Future is a cinematic GOAT in big part thanks to doing this more than any other film, as it means that pretty much all the time that the audience spends has purpose. When Doc’s life turns out to have been saved at the end by the note he tore up thirty years earlier, we just can’t help but feel good. Great setups and payoffs should be invisible enough for the audience to not see coming but obvious enough for the audience to feel fulfilled when they come. There’s nothing humans crave more than purpose, for time, for effort, for actions. It’s input and reward.

Dramatic Irony means information possessed by some and not by others in a way that evokes dread or humor or anything of the kind. In Knives Out, we get to know that Marta is responsible for the death being investigated, while the other characters don’t know. It’s that uneven distribution of knowledge that transforms the next scene of the heroes looking for clues into something very different: into Marta trying to avoid being caught via the clues. Suddenly, it’s much more than heroes simply walking around looking for evidence and exposition. For those unwilling to accept Knives Out as an example for a reason or another, watch the movie Calibre.

As for a comedic example of dramatic irony, it’s when Ben Stiller gets his nuts stuck in a zipper in There’s Something About Mary. Cops and firemen start showing up to the bathroom door and window because everyone else thinks there’s been a murder or something. But we know!

Twist is the method of shocking the audience with an unexpected subversion to keep them attentive and on their toes. In Seven, the heroes investigate many horrific crime scenes without catching the murderer, until one day he simply strolls into the police station. It’s a turn so out of left field that suddenly nobody knows where things will go next, which is why everyone is now glued to the screen to find out. The trick is to make the twist serve the story rather than to twist the story simply for the sake of doing so regardless of the drawbacks.

Reversal is the method of flipping a scene between positive and negative to make it a rollercoaster. Endgame’s finale is a constant, fast-paced flick of a switch between sighing in relief and gasping in fear. Yes, we survived! Oh crap, they’re coming for the gauntlet! Yes, we get to tag-team on Thonos! Oh crap, he’s still too strong! Yes, Cap can lift Thor’s hammer! Oh crap, not even that is enough! A rollercoaster of emotions is a ride like no other.

Power Dynamics applies the idea of reversals on a character level to build characters off of each other. The climactic chess game in A Game of Shadows is a long series of Sherlock and Moriarty one-upping one another to get on top of the other. Sherlock stops Moriarty’s war-starting assassination and captures the assassin to incriminate him. Moriarty deals with the assassin and reveals war to be inevitable. Sherlock reveals that he seized Moriarty’s fortune to ruin his immunity. Moriarty makes the fight personal. Sherlock makes the fight physical. Moriarty matches Sherlock’s physicality with the same vision-ability. The scene is about both men constantly pushing themselves higher in order to gain the power between them.

Relationship Dynamics is the method of evolving the bond between characters from one form to another to give it realistic layers. When Sherlock meets the fortuneteller, Simsa, in A Game of Shadows, they’re opponents: he needs something she won’t give. And once external threats then enter the equation, the type of their bond keeps shifting, from hero and damsel to allies united by a common cause. The idea is that evolving a relationship between characters allows you to keep that relationship fresh and three-dimensional. Real bonds between real people are in constant flux and not every interaction is the same as the previous.

Release means a character letting out their heavy internal pain in a way that evokes a sense of raw emotion. It’s Arthur Fleck airing out his long-suppressed rage with a bang with Murray. It’s Bourne fighting his way through hell to tell an orphan girl that he’s sorry for what he did. A character moping around complaining is weak, but a character holding it all in until it breaks out with full force leads to emotion like no other.

Extra Variable is an unbelonging element added to a scene to boost its challenge and difficulty or anything of the like. When Stallone’s sheriff in Cop Land goes to ask DeNiro’s federal agent for help, the scene wasn’t initially working because all DeNiro could do was sit there and listen. Then, the director got an idea to fix it by adding in something extra: a sandwich. What it did was allow DeNiro to actively ignore Stallone’s pleas by focusing on eating with his partner. A simple, unnecessary sandwich had cranked the scene up multiple levels. Sure, Benji doesn’t have to get hanged in Ilsa’s fight against Lane in Fallout, but the fact that he does adds that extra kick to the fight.

Hot Coffee is the method of building a scene on something unresolved left brewing earlier to create an incredibly strong underlying power. In Matchstick Men (spoilers ahead,) Nic Cage finds a purpose for his lonely life by growing close to his estranged daughter, only to ultimately realize that he’s been scammed by someone pretending to be his daughter. All his newfound purpose is gone, along with his life’s work, just like that. And in the very climax of the movie, Cage and his “daughter” happen to meet one more time… and oh damn. Before a single word has been written for the scene itself, it’s already full of such raw power that the audience is completely hooked. That’s what you can get by brewing up some hot coffee.

Into the Spider-Verse – The Many Shades of Reversals

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse brings various multiverse-versions of Spider-Man characters into one kickass animated movie. And while it can be celebrated for a long list of strengths, the one that stands out among the top is its amazing multi-purpose use of reversals…

Firstly, reversals build characters in a memorable way with little time. The scientist woman, Olivia, seems to be a harmless nerd, until she turns out to be a murderous alternate version of Doc Ock! Kingpin seems to be a gigantic human embodiment of confidence and remorselessness, until he turns out to be a sad little man missing his family. It’s the assumption of people existing on one end of the spectrum and the reversal of the truth being the opposite that gives them instant layers.

Character reversals can’t replace proper development and arcs, but they can offer a lot of value at little cost in terms of time. Although Peter B Parker is great for many reasons, it’s his unexpected deadbeat nature that earns the audience’s attention from the very start.

Secondly, reversals create visual comedy akin to the masters of the silent era. When Miles follows his uncle’s ladies-man advice by putting his hand confidently on Gwen’s shoulder, we expect the joke to come from her unpleased reaction… only for the punchline to be that his spider-fingers get stuck on her shoulder and hair. When Miles gets bit by the radioactive spider, it’s made into a massive visual thing… only for the punchline to be that Miles barely feels it. The movie sets up an assumption of how something will play out and then mines comedy from it playing out in a very different way.

Comedic reversals based on visuals aren’t the only source of laughs, as dialogue-based comedy can work well too. But there is a reason Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin are legends. Seeing Miles and Peter B walk into a cafeteria full of ordinary scientists, only for all the scientists to pull out massive weapons… that’s universally funny, beyond the borders of language.

Thirdly, reversals generate emotional value with rollercoaster-like layers. Peter Parker’s fight in the opening goes from him being his usual positive self to him dying due to not being able to carry on anymore. Miles’ bond with his uncle evolves through various stages – from the uncle being the only trustworthy person in his life, to the uncle being the one who wants to hurt him the most, to the uncle suffering due to a hesitation to choose duty over family. The movie enters scenes and relationships with one emotion and then ends them with another emotion entirely. Things go from optimistic to pessimistic, from hope to despair, and so on.

Emotional reversals are a movie’s greatest weapon against feeling stale. A great comedy also makes you cry, whereas a great thriller also gives you moments of levity. Be a range of emotions rather than an emotional flatline. Be a rollercoaster of feelings.

Back to the Future – The Power of Setups & Payoffs, Part I

Back to the Future needs no marketing speech to hype up since odds are you’ve heard the speech a thousand times already. But to scream it from the mountaintops once more: this film uses setups and payoffs more and better than any other, and in various, specific ways…

Firstly, setups and payoffs utilize contextual irony for humor. In the beginning, Marty’s family is having dinner and the topic goes to his uncle Joey being locked in prison. That comes back in play later when Marty visits his mom’s family in the past and notices his uncle as a baby in a crib. A sight that makes him crack a fitting line: “Better get used to these bars, kid.” It’s a throwaway moment yet the irony born from the context set up before makes it absolute gold. The image of an innocent baby in a crib coupled with the knowledge that one day the image will shift into a grown man in jail… simply hilarious.

Contextual irony can mine comedy from anything so long as there’s a setup to make that thing be understood in different light. What makes Marty being chased remorselessly by her mom in the past extra funny is the fact that in the future she wanted to protect him from extrovert girls.

Secondly, setups and payoffs help form storylines and characters. When Marty arrives in the future, his hazmat-suit makes a local family see him as a scary invader from space, and later he uses it to scare his dad into asking his mom out on a date. That’s already a cool input and reward, but it’s ultimately way more. It ties into Marty’s dad being a fiction nerd who wants to write novels. It ties into Marty being a rock fan who weaponizes future music against his dad. It unites many different parts of the story and character arcs into one.

Utilizing individual setups and payoffs during a story is great, but fusing them into the story’s core DNA to contribute to it is exceptional. To see Marty put on a school music show in the past like he was preparing to do in the future, in a way that also makes him grow over his fear of rejection… that’s not setup and payoff but rather the very essence of the movie.

Thirdly, for every setup there’s a payoff to maximize purpose. Whatever big or tiny elements the movie introduces, it in some way resolves – from a janitor’s aspirations to be mayor, to Marty falling into his mom’s life in the past exactly as his dad did, to Marty’s skateboarding skills being used in the past, to the clocktower being broken from lightning. Whatever happens or has happened, it carries some sort of larger worth, which makes the experience incredibly satisfying to watch. It’s like a never-ending full circle.

Setups and payoffs are there to earn the viewers’ willingness to participate. All their time amounts to something, all their attention gets rewarded. They aren’t practically partaking in the story, no, but by carrying elements of the story in their memory into their conclusions, they can feel like they do. It’s the viewer making the connections that makes the experience work.

Us – The Power of Setups & Payoffs, Part II

Us is Jordan Peele’s writer-directorial horror follow-up to the smash hit Get Out. And while the movie itself isn’t necessarily a home run, it does offer more useful context for setups and payoffs due to being driven by a singular vision long in the making. It’s no Back to the Future but it can still shine some extra light on the topic…

Firstly, setups and payoffs appear in extra unexpected ways. When the father of the family shows off his cool boat and all its features, every viewer can guess that it will come into play later. And indeed it does: it’s the ultimate battleground for the dad and his doppelganger. But there are also many less obvious layers involved. The boat’s life-ring saves the dad’s day by pulling the doppelganger away, the boat’s fault of veering left keeps the battle alive, the malfunctioning motor serves as the dad’s road to victory, and even the flare gun plays its part. Yes, the boat is a payoff we all see coming, but at the same time, it consists of many more detailed elements we didn’t see coming when we first saw them and later realize we should’ve.

Setups and payoffs offer purpose through participation but it’s their unpredictable nature that prevents participating from getting dull. It’s the difference between scratching an annoying itch and getting to scratch off an itch you didn’t know was there until now. It’s like the difference between watching Dora the Explorer and watching something other than Dora the Explorer.

Secondly, setups and payoffs define the purpose behind plot and characters. All the family members have their own cores: the girl is a runner who wants to learn to drive a car, the boy is a wannabe magician who gets locked in closets, the mom has issues with belonging, and the dad is nuts about water and boats. These cores and their contexts are what ultimately create the battles against the doppelgangers as well as the manner in which everything unfolds. That’s what gives the story purpose beyond being about whatever characters going on whatever journeys. That’s what makes the experience a puzzle where every piece has a place.

This is similar to how Back to the Future uses Marty’s music aspiration to create the third act challenge of him having to play at the school dance. It’s the method of viewing a story as one big setup and payoff, with a beginning that services the middle and a middle that services the end and the other way around. The movie sort of creates itself from what it is at the core. That’s what makes any movie feel effective and purposeful.

Ghost in the Shell – When Setups and Payoffs Go Missing

Ghost in the Shell dresses Scarlett Johansson in a skintight cyborg bodysuit to fight crime in a cyberpunk city, which by the sound of it should’ve probably amounted to more than it does. There are many hindrances keeping the value of the film’s parts down, but among the biggest is its inability to set those parts up and pay them off in a way that they could function…

Firstly, emotional value is ruined by a lack of emotional proof. The core internal drive for the hero, Major, is the memory of her dead family, which gets upended when she realizes that it’s not real. Turns out that she never had a family and that she’s just a lost soul stuck in a machine. By nature, that should be an existence-shattering lie full of feeling. Yet it isn’t because Major’s memories haven’t been experienced first-hand: her family exists only in her words and in a photo. The lie isn’t concrete enough for the viewer to invest in the uncovering of the truth.

Tears on screen are good but it’s what’s behind the tears that needs a physical form the most. Had the audience lived Major’s happy family memories on screen, the truth of them being a lie would’ve hit much more. Had the audience gotten any conception of Major’s true past life, her reunion with her Asian mom at the end would’ve felt more fulfilling than weird.

Secondly, the power behind elements is lessened by a lack of clarity. The ending battle where Major, a half-human cyborg, takes on a fully robotic destroyer-spiderbot should make for a powerful climax. Yet there’s not enough prior foundation. The spiderbot’s lethality has never been on show, which leaves its threat unearned. The spiderbot’s defenses have never been tested, which makes it unclear how big of a deal it is when Major pushes her body to the breaking point to rip it open. The levels are there but the meters to put them in context aren’t.

Power comes from actions that establish them. Had the spiderbot fought on Major’s side earlier and evaporated a group of criminals, there’d be no question about its lethality at the end. Had the spiderbot’s armor been shown to be impenetrable against all criminal weapons, there’d be no lack of clarity about the extent of Major’s effort to rip the armor open at the end.

Thirdly, an invisible setup often leads to distracted confusion. There’s a scene where two garbagemen get their bodies hacked to shoot at Major, which is weird since it’s never shown where they get their rifles. One can ultimately deduce that the villain planted them earlier, yes. But in the moment, it’d be easier to focus on the moment itself if the men pulled the rifles from a glovebox or something, instead of suddenly having them in hand. It’s always tougher to focus on an event when it hinges on a setup that exists beyond the eye, whether it’s an absolving lie-detector test that was never seen or a villain motivation with no clear desired result.

A tangible setup lets the viewer enjoy the payoff to the fullest, without having to wonder about the logic and logistics behind it. Ambiguity can be an asset but confusion is most often death.

Knives Out – Dramatic Irony as a Subversive Weapon

Knives Out is a murder-mystery made by Rian Johnson at a time when half the internet wanted to murder him for something that’s no mystery. As said before, the film is built heavily on dramatic irony – unequal distribution of info – with the intent to subvert genre traditions. And while subversion isn’t the most liked word among current casual audiences, when used in the right ways, it can be very effective…

Firstly, subversions escalate elements into something more. When Marta is revealed as the one responsible, it turns the investigation into a loaded weapon, and as a result, a scene of collecting clues becomes a scene of avoiding being incriminated by the clues. When Marta is revealed as the inheritor of the family fortune, it throws her into conflict, and as a result, a scene about a bystander becomes a scene about the center of hostile attention. Whether the turns are designed to crank up conflict or dread or something else, their purpose is to intensify the story and keep it fresh. A usual whodunit gets upended into a less usual and less predictable shedunit.

Playing with information as well as with twists and turns can be useful so long as it adds to the experience rather than take from it. Snoke dying in The Last Jedi is a shock but leaves the story with no big villain to fear. Blanc knowing way more than he initially let on is a shock and it elevates his stature as a smart detective. It makes him more than what was originally thought.

Secondly, subversions don’t splinter the story but rather make it whole. Yes, Blanc realizes Marta’s culpability early on and doesn’t do anything about it or even share his realization with the viewer, but that passive inaction is required for him to complete his investigation. Yes, the point of view does jump untraditionally from one person to the next, but each POV is necessary for the pieces to fall in their overall place, like when Toni Collette’s insight about a noise fills the context for Marta’s perspective. It’s like an alternate formula for calculating the same result.

Taking left turns and deviating from tradition can be helpful so long as the left turns don’t break off into separate paths but instead find their way back to the original one. The casino planet journey to go find out about the rich in The Last Jedi is a side-trip with no external value to the main trip. Knives Out, however, is more like a substitute route to reach the intended finish.

Thirdly, subversion doesn’t mean abandoning narrative threads. Marta having a condition of puking upon lying is a pretty bizarre quirk, but it plays its part and gets concluded by being the final nail to the villain’s coffin. The plot being based on a name (Hugh) and how it can mean different things is quite arbitrary, but it does lead to something as well as shed more light on the man behind the name and how he treats others. It all comes with a point and a purpose.

Subversion shouldn’t mean bringing elements in out of nowhere only to then toss them out somewhere. The codebreaker in The Last Jedi can be frustrating because he just disappears as quickly as he appeared. Knives Out has more of a larger design to its madness, as should you.

The Snyder Cut – Significance of Scene-work, Part I

Justice League: The Snyder Cut is a reassembled version of its Frankenstein precursor, Josstice League. And while it does follow the same overall storylines, as a movie it’s a whole new and improved experience, in big part thanks to major differences on scene level…

Firstly, scenes carry individual value instead of being mere steps in the story. The scene of reviving Superman isn’t only that, but instead, it explores the potential dark consequences of the act. The scene of Steppenwolf getting the third Motherbox isn’t only that, but instead, it explores Cyborg’s dad’s sacrifice along with their conflicted relationship. The scene of the heroes defeating Steppenwolf isn’t only that, but instead, it’s built on Flash finding his purpose and turning back time to take the heroes from defeat to victory. Events don’t simply occur to move the plot forward as quickly as possible – they’re made into experiences of their own.

Although all scenes should be part of a larger plan, they should be able to stand individually as well. It’s not only about what the plot-event exists for but also about what happens in it and how. The best scenes are the ones that viewers return to watch on Youtube outside the movie.

Secondly, scenes are driven by emotional intent instead of the narrative. We don’t go fight Steppenwolf in the tunnel just for the plot but because Cyborg’s dad is among the hostages, and because despite their hostile bond he still cares about him. We don’t see Lois and Clark reunite just because it’s Batman’s plan but because Lois’ loss has wrecked her life and this gives it color once more. We don’t battle Steppenwolf because he’s an entitled teenage girl who “deserves the earth” but because he’s a person trying to lift himself up from the gutter. Whatever happens and in whatever manner, it’s fueled by relationships and internal incentives.

While all scenes should have external value, it’s the personal motivations driven by emotion that gives them heart. Action may be cool to watch but alone it’s only action. It’s the innermost purposes inciting the action that make it something to care about.

Thirdly, scenes build elements and characters instead of being built by them. The Motherboxes are introduced via Superman’s death, which gives them a level of tangible worth instead of simply being CGI boxes everyone talks about. Steppenwolf refrains from saying nonsensically goofy lines for comedic effect, which protects his status as a villain. Bruce Wayne maintains a line between acting as a billionaire playboy and a dark knight, which maintains his layered personality. All of this is a stark contrast to Josstice League, in which characters behaved and elements were used in whatever exploitative ways to service the events.

While scenes are significant, they ultimately exist to serve what’s in them. It’s not about how empty MacGuffins can bring “value” to scenes but about how scenes can assign value to the MacGuffins. It’s not about how characters can “improve” scenes but about how scenes can improve the characters. Ask not what they can do for you but what you can do for them.

No Time to Die – Significance of Scene-work, Part II

No Time to Die is the one movie I wish I’d covered in a positive video instead of a negative one. Not only because I heard my mom loves it and I’d never want to take anything away from that, but also because I too think the movie overall is great. Still, it does suffer from a couple scene-related weaknesses much too valuable to be left unlearnt from…

Firstly, scenes consist of contrivances forced by the plot, which breaks the magic. Spectre’s death is born from Blofeld using a brand-new toxic gas in the presence of all his agents, despite there being a thousand less idiotic ways to kill Bond. Q’s success in the investigation is born from Blofeld’s bionic eye that he had in jail with no explanation or visual enforcement. Bond’s ultimate sacrifice is born from a buyer arriving to pick up Safin’s poison, without it ever being established who the buyer is or why the micromanaging, domination-seeking villain would sell his weapon. Things don’t seem to happen because people act but because they need to happen.

While scenes are an artificial part of the plot, it’s the writer’s job to hide the seams. There must be a more organic way to reconnect Bond and Madeleine than by making her be Blofeld’s jail therapist due to being “the only one he’ll talk to,” with no evidence of what info Blofeld has bartered with to earn the right to choose. Don’t let your keystrokes be heard.

Secondly, scenes go to half-lengths with half-measures, which leaves them lackluster. Bond sacrificing himself due to an incurable disease keeping him from his family is an emotional idea, except the incurable part isn’t sold outside of Q saying so. Blofeld’s end coming from his own poison is a poetic idea, except all it means is that in one shot he’s just dead as if he fell asleep. Safin’s mission being to destroy Spectre as revenge is a powerful idea, except it’s accomplished right away and then he becomes a generic god-complex bad guy. Massive potential is diluted down to fractions in practice, like driving a Bugatti in second gear.

Strong ideas are only as strong as the form they take in scenes. To sell the poison’s incurability, show the chaotic terror that unfolds when a cure is tried on someone. To sell the new villain, show Blofeld suffering a surprised and painful death to his own poison. Shift up your Bugatti.

Thirdly, scenes are overcome in easy and simple ways, which feels weak. Bond seems to play most of the movie on recruit difficulty – whether it’s thanks to a bulletproof car, or enemy drivers who look to have found their licenses in a cereal box, or a hostile base that can be stormed without being hit with a single shot, or a villain who apparently wants to get beat up and defeated at the end. A hero like Bond should be suave in his actions, yes, but it’s tough to take events and obstacles like the Spectre party too seriously when one can simply waltz in.

A harder scene is often a better scene and vice versa. There’s not much reward in seeing Bond flee a sinking ship by opening a door. Crank up the difficulty and the solutions along with it.

Man of Steel – Significance of Scene-work, Part III

Man of Steel is the launch into Zack Snyder’s ideal version of the DCEU, the quality of which is in contention still to this day. What you and I should focus our attention to, however, is the movie’s useful foundational mantra about scene creation: “character and/or plot”…

Firstly, scenes exist to explore and reveal something new about characters. When young Clark suffers a Kryptonian epilepsy attack at school, it gives perspective for his struggle of fitting in to the world around him. When teenage Clark doesn’t punch his bully into orbit due to his dad’s words, it provides a source for his generous personality, along with a hint that it may be the correct approach since his former bully helps him. When adult Clark seeks guidance from a pastor, it showcases how he’s still not ready to stand on his own. Each occasion spent with Clark through the years offers a new contextual piece for the grand puzzle of who he is.

Think of characters as onions that scenes peel back layer by layer to expose what’s within. You might not agree with every layer of Clark and Superman that Man of Steel reveals, but don’t let it blind you to the method. Scenes where characters just do stuff in a manner that doesn’t explore anything new about them or their relationships are wasted space.

Secondly, scenes are situations requiring overcoming in a way that furthers the plot. The opening section on Krypton is made up of actions that lead to Clark’s journey with the codex as well as to the villain journey. The arctic section is made up of actions that lead to Clark freeing the frozen Kryptonian ship, which unlocks not only his path to Superman but also the path to the villains’ arrival. The entire third act is made up of actions that lead to the Earth being saved from the invaders. The sequences and the scenes within them are about pushing against an external opposing force to get a result that progresses the narrative to the next step.

Think of plot-events as levels in a video game that must be completed to move onto the next one. External challenges and situations are by no means exclusive to plot, as they can also be used for character exploration like when Clark saves the bus as well as the oil rig. But specifically in terms of plot, progressive situations are a writer’s best asset.

Thirdly, the best scenes handle both plot and character. This isn’t tied to Man of Steel specifically, but I just want to say it out loud. Try as hard as you can to build scenes on characters overcoming challenging situations with actions that reveal something new about them and advance the plot. I know that doing both can be hard – much harder than to make up excuses as to why you “don’t need to do it in this particular scene.” And I also know that genre plays a big part in the necessity of it. But the thing is, even indie dramas rarely get worse with character-defining goals and aspirations to push toward. Do as you wish, but remember:

When characters don’t peel, we don’t care. And when nothing happens, we get bored.

A Game of Shadows – Intelligence as a Tool

Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows pits two of cinema’s greatest minds against each other. And with this overload of character intelligence also comes a requirement for the movie and its scenes to be intelligent. Luckily, that is succeeded at with various big brain methods…

Firstly, dynamics between characters are kept in flux to feel real. One half of this means that relationships are uneven in terms of power, like how Sherlock and Moriarty keep one-upping each other to gain the upper hand throughout the film. In real life, interactions aren’t equal: some people are more commanding than others, whether it’s due to personality or station or intention. Apply that to your writing. Who holds the power between the hero and character X? Who holds the power between character X and character Y? What about when character Y meets character Z? How do those power dynamics evolve within and throughout scenes?

The other half of this means that relationships are an evolution in progress, like how Sherlock and Simsa in their meeting go from hostiles to neutral participants to allies. It’s the different sides of a bond that gives it layers and keeps it from getting stale. In real life, interactions don’t remain the same: you might love your sister for hooking you up with her friend on Sunday and hate her for borrowing your towel on Monday. It’s all about the current context and motivations affecting the dynamic. Sherlock and Moriarty start off “friendly” and get more physical in time.

Secondly, narrative throughlines are used to embody essences of the film. The main point of Sherlock and Moriarty’s relationship is to be a game of a fish and the fisherman: who is the hunter and who is the hunted? It’s an idea that appears repeatedly – from Moriarty listening to Schubert’s Fischerweise in Sherlock’s presence, to Moriarty trapping Sherlock like the trout in Schubert’s song and hanging him up on a literal hook, to Sherlock using Moriarty’s notebook at the end to say that the fish is the one to watch out for. It’s not so much a setup and payoff but rather a definition of their rivalry that’s progressed in many forms throughout the movie.

Think of narrative throughlines as central story ideas expressed in a tangible manner. They can take the form of a fishy rivalry, or the form of chess like how Sherlock and Moriarty keep making moves against each other until it all comes culminates in an actual game of chess.

Thirdly, characters don’t directly emote what they feel, which generates complex depth. The bond between the heroes on the surface comes down to Sherlock being annoying and Watson bickering at him, but that’s not really what’s going on. Sherlock isn’t annoying as much as he’s angry and in pain due to losing his best friend to marriage. That’s what guides his actions, like when he involves Watson in the investigation to remind him of the fun they have and when he’s at odds with Watson’s fiancée for stealing his friend. That’s the truth about Sherlock that time begins to reveal to Watson and the audience. That’s what makes Sherlock a person.

Real-life people don’t just speak their mind and say how they feel with ease – they circle and downplay and use passive aggression. They’re not simple. Neither should your characters be.

Solomon Lane – A Case Study of Dynamics

Solomon Lane is a central antagonist in later Mission Impossible movies and also a great example of how dynamics affect character quality as well as the audience’s perception of it. This entry is pretty different to everything else in this book, but I was listening to Tom Cruise and writer-director Chris McQuarrie’s commentary on Fallout at the gym yesterday, and it gave me a lightbulb moment in terms of this topic. So, I wanted to share it here as well.

Basically, Solomon Lane as a villain has divided me weirdly in half. In his first movie, I didn’t like him at all, I thought he was a weak and dull antagonist. In his second movie, I loved him, I thought he was an amazing antagonist. And the kicker here is that he’s basically the same person in both movies. What!? How!? Where’s the difference then? Well, in dynamics!

In Rogue Nation, Lane runs a massive criminal organization and thus mostly sends others to do his bidding, including Ilsa Faust and at times even Ethan Hunt. Whenever he does appear in scenes himself, he tends to have the upper hand thanks to his goons or some other metaphorical loaded gun. And the issue is that the strength of his personality is built on him being intimidating through darkly calm composure, which doesn’t gel with his constant upper hand. It’s pretty easy to act tough when your opponent in the dynamic is always tied up or surrounded, so much so that it reduces the value of that toughness to zero. It’s pretentious. It’s like pissing downwind or bullying kids at a kindergarten: everyone can do it.

To be clear, Lane does do things himself. He kills a young agent to motivate Ethan at the start, not to mention that the whole plan is his. But in terms of the scene dynamics, there’s no hostile force for his dark composure to defy or prove itself through, which makes it feel as usefully special as a wind turbine in a valley where the wind never blows.

In Fallout, Lane is imprisoned and becomes a target for many hostile parties when he’s sprung free by Ethan: he’s a captured terrorist for the US and a murder-assignment for the British. But despite all those overwhelming forces clamping down on Lane, he never loses his calm. Ilsa unloads a clip of bullets at him, yet he barely bats an eye. The heroes sit him down in chains to haze him, yet he’s the one getting under their skin. No matter how little power Lane holds in his scene dynamics with others, he always gets through the scenes with top marks as if he’s the one in control. That’s what makes him such a strong and fascinating and formidable villain. He can’t be broken or intimidated or gotten to, no matter the method or intensity.

A personality of dark composure is worth much more at gunpoint. That doesn’t mean that every villain should be held at gunpoint instead of holding the gun, but it does mean that dynamics carry a major effect on the quality of character qualities. So keep that in mind when building a character and their dynamical bonds. Is it better for them to hold the power in a dynamic or does their strength come from playing more on the opposite side?

King Arthur – The Duality of Moments

King Arthur: Legend of the Sword is director Guy Ritchie’s big budget take on the Arthurian origin story. And although the movie at face value holds at least five hours’ worth of content, Ritchie manages to cut it down to two mere hours with his signature filmmaking tool: the use of moments. A tool which holds both a positive as well as a negative side…

Firstly, moments can deliver necessary information at a fast and entertaining pace. The beginning covers Arthur’s growth from a boy to an adult to establish his personality and skills and loved ones and inner demons. And while the same takes films like Batman Begins a full act to do, here it’s done with a two-minute reel of progressing moments with no dialogue. Same with Arthur’s skirmish with the Vikings that serves as the inciting incident: it’s shown through a framing device of recounting the events to keep it tight. Same when the evil king breaks Arthur’s spirit by killing his foster mother: it’s intercut with Arthur’s own execution to get over it quicker. These aren’t full scenes as much as they’re fragments of scenes joined together to produce a lightning-fast chain.

When a movie runs long, the use of moments can indeed save time and keep things moving. Instead of a full scene explaining why Arthur doesn’t get chased after jumping from the cliff at his execution, there’s a short shot of a guard backing away from the cliff in fear. That’s enough for the audience to get the information required to continue to the next step in the story.

Secondly, moments can make scenes lose their individual substance and value. When soldiers raid Arthur’s home after his skirmish with the Vikings, there’s no time for tension because we already cut to him having escaped. When Arthur’s foster mom gets killed, there’s no time for grief or choices because we’re already intercutting with his own execution where he’s given up. When Arthur fights supernatural beasts in the Darklands, there’s no time to invest in any of it because it’s a showreel of stuff happening rather than a challenge to beat. There’s no time for events to breathe because they’ve been chopped down to the point where they exist only lead to the next event, which leaves them emotionally hollow.

While moments can make things fast-paced and cool, they can also leave them superficial since focus is always on the future rather than on here and now. A movie can have montages but a movie itself can’t be one big montage – a montage exists to end whereas a movie exists to be experienced minute by minute. To save time, sometimes it’s better to cut out full scenes and subplots to make the most out of less, instead of cutting out parts of everything to turn it all into a blur. Imagine the border sequence in Sicario being cut down to a highlight reel of key moments only – it would destroy overall tension and defeat the purpose of the sequence. A movie’s purpose isn’t only to end, nor is a scene’s.

How to Handle Exposition

Exposition is cinema’s very own fossil fuel: it’s vital for the experience to function yet its use can be incredibly harmful to the experience. It’s the information which the audience needs to hear to be able to enjoy what they watch but which they don’t enjoy hearing. Luckily though, there are ways to disguise exposition to make it a bit less obvious and annoying…

Firstly, info can be infused into action to make it exciting. In Multiverse of Madness, there’s an early fight scene of Doctor Strange saving America Chavez from a monster, followed by a pizzeria scene of Chavez explaining the details behind the monster and herself required by the plot. What if that explanation happened during the fight? That way, the movie wouldn’t have to stop at a gas station of information to fuel up before being able to move on, but instead, the fueling would happen during the excitement. The danger is that the information can get lost in the action, but if it’s done well like Spielberg and Cameron do it, it allows you to keep driving past those boring gas stations while the car fuels itself.

Secondly, info can be treated as hostile to give it tension. In The Winter Soldier, Cap and Widow enter an old military base to get a long explanation about the rise of Hydra within Shield. And the execution of it leans very heavily on dread. The information is found in a dark abandoned basement, it’s delivered by a creepy sentient computer built from a dead Reich-doctor’s mind, with a heavy focus on Hydra’s ominous takeover, along with an incoming missile attack at the end. The exposition comes with teeth, and the audience is so caught up in its sinister nature that they forget they’re being spoon-fed exposition.

Thirdly, info can be built on conflict to make it a challenge to overcome. When Strange and Chavez have entered another universe in Multiverse of Madness, they come across a memory projector that reveals their emotional backstories. It’s a moment of exposition so random and forced and free of charge that that’s exactly how it feels. And what if it was more of a secret to crack? What if Chavez doesn’t want to reveal her backstory that Strange requires, and so he plans to dig up the truth by utilizing the memory projector? That way, the scene would be less about the exposition and more about the challenge of unlocking it. It’d be about effort and reward rather than forced knowledge.

Fourthly, info can be coupled with an impending doom to generate an urge to get it. Before Cap and Widow find the basement in The Winter Soldier, they stop at an Apple store to get directions from a flash drive. And as they open the drive, their location is pinged to Hydra operatives who make their way to them. It turns the exposition into a race in which it has to be absorbed before time runs out. Gaining the information feels like a relief instead of a chore.

Fifthly, info can be held off on to fill desired contextual gaps later. The dreamwalking ability in Multiverse of Madness is explained to Strange at the same time as Wanda first begins to use it, as if the movie brings it into existence with words. Boring. But what if the order of these events was different? What if the concept of dreamwalking appeared on screen before the explanation? Maybe Strange gets targeted by a dreamwalking Wanda earlier on in the streets in such a threatening manner that it makes the audience crave an answer for what’s going on. The explanation would be something the audience gets to learn instead of having to learn.

Sixthly, info can take the form of characters and events so interesting that it just works. When the Illuminati in Multiverse of Madness explain the real truth behind the defeat of their universe’s Thanos and Strange, it’s inherently intriguing enough to be entertaining by itself. The audience is so captivated by Reed Richards that they just want to hear him talk, no matter what about. So, if your movie has some very tough exposition to sell as well as characters and events with very strong inherent interest value, combine them into one to solve the issue.

Seventhly, info can be wrapped in emotion to make it drama. At the end of The Bourne Supremacy, Bourne goes to meet a young orphan woman to explain the full story of what happened to her parents as well as his involvement in it. All of which is so heavily built on the characters’ emotions that it doesn’t feel like exposition as much as it feels like a great scene in and of itself. The focus isn’t on the words that Bourne says but rather on the pain he says them with and the tears they draw from the girl listening. It’s not exposition – it’s drama.

Eighthly, info can be delivered in smaller bits to avoid big bad dumps. In Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, most scenes ignore vital plot details in favor of going all in on action and explosions, which keeps piling those vital plot details up until the point where the movie can’t logically continue without them. That’s when you get scenes called exposition dumps that exist solely to unload all the necessary details on the audience in order for the movie to be able to move on, like when the heroes meet the old SR-71 transformer that takes them to Egypt. There’s exposition about the symbols and the Fallen and the Sun machine and the matrix and the tomb of the Primes and whatever you can imagine. It’s like an all-you-can-hear buffet except you do have to hear it all until your mind goes numb.

Ninthly, info can be made funny to function by itself. Think about it: as long as exposition is funny, it doesn’t matter that it’s exposition. Whatever makes the audience laugh makes them laugh. The Hangover is a comedy all about information and it’s the information where the comedy comes from. If details are funny or if the delivery is funny, it all just works, regardless of what the details are exactly. Either the audience is entertained or they’re not. Simple as that.

CHAPTER 8

GENRE: ACTION

With the more craft-specific topics out of the way, the next step is to explore writing and filmmaking through a wider contextual lens of different genres, starting from action. And of course, action is one of those genres heavily influenced by factors far beyond a writer’s control:

What kind of a budget is the movie given? Who will do the stunts on it? Will it be shot on a physical location or inside a Marvel green screen room? Who will direct it, and do they write their own action? Is Tom Cruise available to jump out of an airplane for it?

Production variables like that will affect the quality of your movie’s action to a massive extent, and sadly, you can’t do anything about it. Still, you shouldn’t lose hope! Because lucky for you, there are other, more fundamental aspects about action that you can strengthen to give the final result as much of a chance as possible. While not every action movie plays in the same pond, most of their positive value does come down to the same core features:

– The action itself has a signature presence that stands out.

– There are set-piece sequences that have never been experienced in such a way.

– There’s a standard to the non-action writing that’s above the level of those straight-to-digital Bruce Willis movies.

If you can lock down these key action aspects, you’re giving the movie the best possible shot at succeeding before other people come in to either take it to new heights or ruin it. So, in this chapter, let’s look at a variety action flicks with this mindset to find elements around action to utilize and watch out for…

At World’s End – The Building Blocks of a Set-piece Sequence, Part I

Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End concludes the Pirates trilogy with one of the biggest bangs of all time: a 20-minute sea battle between the Black Pearl and the Flying Dutchman. And to know what makes that action sequence so great, one must look beyond the action…

Firstly, the sequence’s setting is fresh and distinct. The clash between the Pearl and the Dutchman occurs in heavy storm, inside a massive whirlpool that pulls both ships toward the bottom one circle at a time. Not only does this maelstrom look incredible but it also affects the practicalities, from the swinging ropes to the void of death below to the ultimate ship collision. It’s a very distinguishable location never seen in another movie, which is what makes it special.

The setting in which action takes place is like a postcard to remember it by. So before you look for the specifics of the physical action, look for where and under which conditions it all unfolds.

Secondly, the sequence is made up of ever-progressing character beats. Instead of Jack just swinging his sword for twenty minutes, the battle is a checkpoint-driven journey for him. He escapes the brig, he steals Davy Jones’ chest, he flees Jones to the top and tricks him to reveal the key, he chases the chest to get Jones’ heart into his hand. All these beats are built on who Jack is as a person, and they’re designed to keep the narrative moving within the sequence.

Think of sequences as their own tiny stories where characters act and advance in ways that explore them. Jones kills Mercer to unshackle himself, Will and Liz officiate their bond in the fight, Bootstrap Bill chooses his son over his duty. That’s the meat on the sequence’s bone.

Thirdly, the sequence is a long roadmap of payoffs. When Jack’s sword breaks against Jones, it doesn’t get tossed away but instead plays a part later in stabbing Jones’ heart. Just like with films as a whole, the use of setups and payoffs within the sequence keeps the viewer engaged as a participant. And some of the setups have begun long before: Will and Liz’s wedding resolves their conflict, Jack’s brig-escape is built on his past with Will, Bootstrap Bill’s choice to help Will breaks his bond to the ship. It’s one puzzle piece falling in place after another.

Paying things off within a sequence makes the value of the payoffs go to the sequence. Once Cap lifted Thor’s hammer in Endgame, that’s one key thing that sequence became known for.

Fourthly, the sequence ends in intimate emotion. While the battle may rage on, at the end it all fades away as focus shifts fully onto the main characters fighting over what matters. And what matters is Jack and Will and Liz giving their all to get past Jones to his heart. What matters is where Bootstrap Bill’s true allegiances lie. What matters is whether Jack wants to be immortal more than he wants Will to live. That’s what the audience takes with them.

Even if a sequence has the greatest external action of all time, it should ultimately get small at the end. Only personal emotion can truly, effectively convey whether the end is a win or a loss.

Ghost Protocol – The Building Blocks of a Set-piece Sequence, Part II

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol is where Tom Cruise began his hobby of cheating death on a daily basis. And what makes the sun of action shine so bright on both TC and the movie itself is the method of dividing the experience into a handful of larger, kickass sequences…

Firstly, the sequences are their own mini-movies with a defining objective and obstacle. In the Russia section, Ethan is tasked to find proof of a terrorist’s identity in the Kremlin, with the hurdle in the way being the fact that it’s in the Kremlin! And so, he has to infiltrate security and outsmart personnel and outrun explosions until the objective is reached in a way that the story can move on. Very clear. From the moment the phone-briefing begins the sequence, Ethan is pushing against a specific opposing force, which creates the excitement and entertainment.

The best way to make a sequence stand on its own is to build it around a mini-sized plot: what does the hero need to do in it and why and when, and what’s in the way? Once the mini-goal is established, it’s like a starting shot of a race that ends when the mini-goal’s finish line is crossed. There’s your constant sense of purpose and achievement and progression right there.

Secondly, the challenge of the sequences increases. In the Dubai section, the heroes must take control of the hotel’s security system to scam the villains. Quite straightforward, but not for long. The security system has to be hacked manually, which means Ethan has to climb up to it at 1700 feet with malfunctioning climbing gear. The villains arrive early, which means Ethan has to sprint back down with a rope and do the meeting without masks. The villains bring a scientist to see through fake nuclear launch codes, which means the heroes have to play with real ones. Things keep escalating in a way that requires tougher and tougher choices and acts.

A sequence involving action should never be a flat line but an ever-increasing slope. Keep throwing in bigger hurdles and issues to crank things up, within sequences and from one sequence to another. That’s how to keep the audience glued to the screen.

Thirdly, sequences are completed with a loss until the last one. Ethan doesn’t get the proof of the terrorist’s identity in the Kremlin, but the effort does make him figure the identity out as intended. The heroes lose the nuclear launch codes in Dubai, but the effort does get them on the villain’s trail as intended. The heroes are too late to shut down the missile launch in India, but the effort does allow them to track the launch’s location to stop it as intended. The objectives are reached in negative and unexpected ways, in a way that keeps the plot moving.

If a hero wins a sequence, it could mean the end of the movie. If a hero loses a sequence, it could mean they’re passive. But if a hero succeeds in a sequence through failure, it means they can actively push the plot with their actions while still allowing the plot to stay alive. And once they finally get the big win in the final sequence after all the failures, the win packs extra punch.

Shang-Chi – How to Elevate Action, Part I

Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings is the 25th movie in Marvel’s cinematic franchise. What makes it a special one, though, is that it brings Asian martial-arts driven action and its mentalities into the MCU. And the result is action amazing enough to steal from…

Firstly, action is supercharged with an additional layer of external or internal nature. The fight scenes built on the external side have an extra danger for the hero to worry about, like how Shaun has to gain control of the high-speed bus full of passengers as he deals with his attackers. Whereas the fight scenes focusing on the internal side have an emotional component that the fight most of all is about, like how Shaun’s MMA match is about a brother trying to reconnect with his long-lost sister and a sister looking to unleash her anger on the brother who abandoned her. In both cases, there’s more to the action than the action itself.

A fight scene is heavily influenced by the stunt team, true, but what the writer can do is inject it with narrative content. The high-rise fight has a peril in form of heights and an objective in form of saving Katy before she falls. The climax fight has an emotional purpose of a father trying to undo the loss of his wife at any cost and a son fighting for the memory of his mother. Figure out what your action is beyond the fists being thrown.

Secondly, action serves a larger purpose in the story. Katy becoming a marksman at the end concludes her arc of figuring out what she’s good at. The villain fighting Shaun’s mom in the beginning establishes their relationship as well as the fighting style Shaun uses to beat the villain in the finale. Shaun training with his master in the flashback not only justifies his skills in the present but also builds the master up as a worthy foe. The climax fight between Shaun and the villain explores their differences around Shaun’s mom’s demise. The action doesn’t happen in a vacuum but instead has something to establish or reinforce or conclude.

Fight scenes shouldn’t pause the story – they should be part of the story and advance it like any other scene. That’s the difference between a great action movie and a movie with great action.

Thirdly, action progresses relationships and peels back their layers. Although Shaun and his sister aren’t friends most of the time, combat reveals more: the sister’s choice to help Shaun on the high-rise shows how much she really cares, while Shaun’s refusal to let her go at the end resolves their conflict. Although Shaun and his dad’s differences lie below the surface for a long time, their battle brings it up: the dad’s killing blow on Shaun shows how gone he is, while Shaun’s pacific fighting style in the climax proves that he still hasn’t given up on his dad. Relationships look and feel very different after combat than before it.

The best fight scenes are the ones that shatter stasis. Instead of focusing on writing every punch, focus on what each punch reveals about characters and their bonds.

Bullet Train – How to Elevate Action, Part II

Bullet Train follows a down-on-his-luck criminal played by Brad Pitt into a Japanese bullet train full of rivaling assassins. The idea itself sounds like a bunch of mindless shooting and fighting with forgettable characters, but thanks to some nifty writing tricks, the result is far above that. No matter the loudness of an idea, it can be dressed up in a smarter form…

Firstly, characters have individual motives and quirks to distinguish them with little time. Ladybug has to solve the murder mystery on the train to absolve himself, while his “thing” is suffering from what seems like crippling bad luck. Lemon and Tangerine have to shift blame to save their own skins, while their “thing” is being the most unlikely twins with a strangely nonchalant approach to being professional hitmen. The Prince seeks revenge on a Yakuza boss, while her “thing” is always being in charge despite being a little girl. No matter the amount of screentime, everyone has a journey to understand and a trait to differentiate them with.

While quirks always depend on tone, they are the quickest way to separate characters from the noise. It’s easier to remember a Russian Yakuza boss in Japan than a Japanese Yakuza boss in Japan. It’s easier to remember an assassin who acts and speaks like a viper than an assassin who’s just a usual assassin. Think of something – anything – special and apply it.

Secondly, narrative throughlines boost the value of action elements. Ladybug’s curious case of luck isn’t a mere quirk but also carries a major effect on the conflict concerning him. It affects how conflict begins, like when an enemy from his past randomly happens to block his way off the train. It affects how conflict unfolds, like when he gets beat up in a fight only to then become a murderer by accident. Overall, the action involving Ladybug isn’t whatever random action but very specifically tied to the aspect of luck and its meaning in the story.

In action, think of narrative throughlines as DNA-branches growing through the movie from which the leaves of action are born, like the way Lemon’s obsession with Thomas the Tank Engine keeps affecting who fights who and who gets shot and who doesn’t. It’s the same thing as we discussed with A Game of Shadows earlier but with a focus on ideas around action.

Thirdly, action is built on the exclusivity offered by the concept. There’s the bullet train, which leads to fighting in tight spaces and according to rules of specific cars like the quiet car as well as to holding on for dear life when the train derails. There’s the individuality of the characters, which means brawling with a focus on venom and anti-venom as well as with an emphasis on fate. There’s the Japanese culture, which allows for imagery that most Hollywood films can’t have. What happens in Bullet Train can happen only in a movie like Bullet Train.

While most physical action has been done, building it on what only you can do is the surest way to separate it from the pack. Action unlocked by concept is where specialty comes from.

The King’s Man – How to Elevate Action, Part III

The King’s Man is a World War I prologue-addition to the Kingsman franchise and sadly has trouble living up to the franchise’s name. That said, since it is made by writer-director Matthew Vaughn, it does hold some smart tricks to utilize in building distinct action…

Firstly, secondary villains embody class-based identities that set them apart. The main bad guy has assembled a multi-national group of henchmen to initiate the Great War, and they all wield very specific areas of expertise in doing so. The Serbian assassin can strike a deadly blow but not fight, the German whisperer can influence his superiors but not force them, the Russian wizard can coerce others to do his bidding but not unnoticeably. Each of these characters possesses their own personality-shaping, practical strengths and weaknesses that can be boiled down to a single label. That keeps them consistent and distinguishable in terms of the action.

While labels can’t replace character development, they can make lesser characters consistent and recognizable with minimal time. The henchman in No Time to Die is forgettable because his personality and skills are too all over the place to grasp. But the Dutch seductress in here is easy to remember because there’s something specific to remember her as. It’s like those classes in shooter games: everybody can tell the difference between the sniper and others.

Secondly, action and the actions of characters are born from negativity to boost their intensity and emotion. Rasputin being killed with a poison cake would be too simple, so it goes wrong: he spits the cake out and turns hostile. The hero landing his plane on the villain’s mountain would be too simple, so it goes wrong: he has to cut himself free from the falling plane and pull himself up an icy wall before it crumbles. The hero’s son helping a wounded soldier across no man’s land would be too simple, so it goes wrong: he has to carry the guy on his back while being shot at by the entire German line. Each setback and turn for the worse makes the obstacle and the action required to overcome it feel bigger, and thus, worth more. Just make sure the setbacks happen organically and not because you forced them to happen.

Same thing applies on character level. The reason the hero’s efforts to protect his son feel significant is because he made a promise to his dying wife. The reason the hero’s efforts to end the war feel significant is because his son is at the frontlines. The reason the hero’s last stand feels significant is because it’s built on his son’s death. Emotions are always at their most powerful when fueled by mistakes and tragedies, and the same power applies to the action that the emotions concern. Audiences care about action only when they care about the actions.

Terminator 2 – How to Elevate Action, Part IV

Terminator 2 is the ultimate action movie that the franchise tried (and failed) to straight up remake with Dark Fate years later because nothing else was working. That tends to happen when you’ve already maxed out the quality meter. And although none of us can get on T2’s level, we can emulate its mentality of making action matter by basing it on characters…

Firstly, the action is made up of character actions that reveal who and what they are. The initial difference between the terminators is physicality: Arnold beats up a barful of bikers to come off as a brute, while the T-1000 sneaks up on a cop to come off as a strategist. And all the subsequent action in the first act is designed to deliver the full truth about them. When the T-1000 opens fire on John Connor in the hallway and kills a civilian, he’s unveiled as the predator machine. When Arnold gets tossed through the shop, his brute physicality transfers over to apply to the T-1000 as well. When the T-1000 won’t stop coming for John even after exploding into flames in the canal, he’s solidified as an inescapable, indestructible force. It’s the action(s) of the T-1000 that builds him up as what the audience perceives him to be.

The smartest way to think of action is to think of it as actions made by individuals. It’s not so much about what happens as it is about who does what and with what capabilities.

Secondly, the action has an underlying heart that loads it with emotion. The main bond driving the movie is the one between John and Arnold, and they both have a flaw keeping them from their potential that the other offers a remedy for. Arnold gives John a father to connect with, whereas John teaches Arnold what it means to be human. That’s what the action is built on. When Arnold makes sure to not kill people and says “hasta la vista baby” as he blows the T-1000 into bits, it signifies his growth toward humanity. When John smiles and becomes more caring and open during his adventure with his new guardian, it signifies him healing over his scars. That’s what all the shooting and fighting is constructed on. That’s why we care.

True worth of action comes not from what happens on screen but from the emotional core driving it from within. A sequence of a hero shooting his way through police is just gunfire and flames. But a sequence of the hero shooting his way through police while making sure not to kill anyone as per his human companion’s instructions… that’s something to invest in.

Thirdly, the action is practical and thus superior. CGI can do a lot these days, but at the end of the day, a chopper chasing a car up a highway is exactly that. Although computers can cheat a background and a skin on a motion-capture performance, building physicality from scratch is a different beast entirely. Even the difference that can’t be seen can most often be felt.

This is beyond writers, but what you can do is write action with at least one foot on the ground.

The 355 – Why Hollywood’s Female Action Movies Fail

The 355 unites top female agents from around the world to foil the evil plans of those who underestimate them. And despite all the money and talent involved, it’s yet another generic flop that makes it even harder for the rest of us to sell our own female-led action scripts…

Firstly, the specialty of the heroes’ action abilities relies on gender and thus leaves them unspecial. The CIA agent is just that: a skilled operative who can shoot guns and beat people up. The MI6 tech agent is just that: a smart computer whiz who can solve issues with a keyboard. The German BND agent is just that: a skilled operative who can shoot guns and beat people up, and who also apparently has trust issues but not really. There’s nothing specific about the heroes outside of them being female versions of basic action archetypes. Aside from the psychiatrist, they can all do the same fighting and shooting to a point where – outside of their nationalities – they can’t be told apart from other blank action heroes or even each other.

Every action lead should have their own angle, whether it’s a missing past or a dead dog. In Jolt, the hero has an anger disorder she needs to hold back with shock therapy, and her intro is about her trying to go on a date without looking like a maniac, unsuccessfully. Very distinct.

Secondly, the action sequences are reruns with women. No matter how cool the sequences here may be, they’re more of the same – from running through Paris, to shooting guns at a pier, to pulling off a gala heist in the exact way expected. It’s vanilla, especially compared to how Bourne grounded combat and how John Wick brought in gun-fu and how Mission Impossible keeps pushing the stunt bar. Find your own action, either from the characters or the concept or the locations or anything. Instead of having the CIA and BND agents simply fight in a subway tunnel, maybe have them dodge passing trains as they fight. Instead of redoing the Waterloo sequence from Bourne Ultimatum in an inferior way, maybe build a sequence of your own.

Action should be sourced from the specialty offered by the movie itself. In Jolt, the hero’s anger disorder kicks in when she’s hiding in a roomful of crying babies, which leads her to toss the babies around to make her escape. It’s not necessarily good but it is freshly specific.

Thirdly, the world of the action is two-dimensionally black and white. All women are good to a point where it makes no sense, like how agents from the US and China trust each other with a new WMD. Whereas all men are evil without any exploration as to why, be it the CIA agent’s partner-lover betraying her for some reason or the villain just wanting to improve his stock portfolio or the CIA boss flipping sides without explanation. It’s hard to get immersed in the action when it’s so unrealistically binary that the reveals can be seen an hour beforehand.

While action movies do need heroes and villains, they can’t be binary. In Jolt, the hero doesn’t go on the journey because she’s good and the men in her way are bad, but because her human flaw of loneliness pushes her to inhuman actions. There’s depth beyond ones and zeroes.

The Gray Man – The Good-Enough Bar of Action

The Gray Man is the first chapter in Netflix’s big new spy action franchise from the Russo brothers, which perhaps didn’t get the best launch possible. However, it does offer solutions to common action weaknesses seen in fellow Hollywood romps like The 355…

Firstly, characters have specificity in their abilities, which allows them to be told apart. The villain, Lloyd, is an ex-government asset whose worth comes from his core of being a shameless conman. He bullies those weaker than him, cheats to beat those stronger than him, and in general acts without rules and limits. He may not be the most gripping bad guy, but he is specific enough to stand out from the usual action bad guys who simply shoot rifles and swing fists with great expertise. That’s a great place to start building from.

Although most action movies do play with the same fundamental skills of gun-handling and fighting, the better ones bring some differentiating angle for it. The main hero here, Six, is much like Bourne, except unlike Bourne, he’s usually fighting from the losing side in terms of power dynamics. It’s enough to give him at least some signature difference.

Secondly, the action sequences can stand on their own thanks to various forms of added value. The opening plays with physical effects of the location, with fireworks disturbing Six’s fight with the rogue agent. The plane scuffle pushes a familiar event to new extremes, with Six having to fight inside a falling plane and dive after an enemy to get a parachute. The assassination flashback is built on an emotional component, with Six trying to take the assassin down without the girl realizing she was targeted. The pit twist relies on the power of impossibility, with Six having to escape a trap so inescapable that it’s interesting to see how he does it. The hospital battle mixes up dynamics, with Six joining forces with the female agent to take the Indian assassin down together. The Prague shootout plays with extra variables, with Six’s fight involving anything from handcuffs to rivaling hit-squads to trams.

While almost all physical action has been seen in some way, there are many ways to build on familiar action to generate fresh value, as is proven time and again in this movie.

Thirdly, the world of the action has more shades than black and white. The Indian agent seems to be a generic evil asset following any instruction like a slave, until he at the end turns out to have a line he won’t cross, which by default makes him more than meets the eye. Sounds like the simplest thing, sure, but the point is that the characters involved in the action have layers for the audience to grasp onto. It can’t be that the hero agents fight for good and the villain agents fight for bad simply on the basis that that’s how it is. No one will care.

All action films must exist beyond binaries. The Gray Man doesn’t quite live up to its name with this, but at least there’s something, like Six treating the girl coldly despite being the hero who ultimately saves her. Great action shifts and resolves sides rather keep them the same.

Heat – How to Build a Shootout Sequence, Part I

Heat holds a place in cinematic history for featuring the greatest shootout sequence of all time: the downtown clash between robbers led by Robert De Niro and police led by Al Pacino. In fact, it is perhaps a bit too great and real, as some people got the bright idea to copy it in real life. Instead of doing that, you should be copying its mentalities on writing movie gunfights…

Firstly, the power of the bullets comes from the buildup they blow out with. Leading up to the clash, the robbers are holding up a bank while the detectives arrive at the scene outside. Both parties inch ever closer and closer, until Val Kilmer finally notices the cops at the getaway car and lets his rifle rip – and as a result, all hell breaks loose. It’s the leadup to the shootout that gives it punch rather than the shots themselves. It’s less about Pacino shooting at the fleeing getaway car and more about him running after it to get it in his sights to shoot.

Not to twist your mind with filthy metaphors but think of gunfire as a climax and everything before it as the main meal. Although Pacino shooting the robber with the hostage-girl may be over in the blink of an eye, it’s the buildup of Pacino chasing the guy into a corner and taking aim that makes the shot feel much bigger than an eyeblink.

Secondly, the value of the bullets comes from characters’ choices to shoot them. Despite the hectic nature of the shootout, it’s full of personal beats that fill it with emotional weight. When De Niro decides to start firing despite being a professional who knows that casualties only make things worse, it shows how far things have gone and how far he’s willing to go. When Kilmer gets hit and De Niro stops to carry him along instead of running, it reinforces the strength of their bond. When Pacino decides to take a shot at the remaining robber in spite of the girl-hostage in the way, it indicates that he may not be that different from the men he’s after. There’s meaning attached to the bullets being launched.

Guns firing and shots flying can be cool but not much more. That’s why there should also be a focus on the cause that sends the shots flying as well as on the result that their trajectories lead to. Pacino bending down to check on his dead partner reminds the audience why they’re there.

Thirdly, the intensity of the bullets comes from their veracity. One half of this means the environment which influences how the shootout unfolds and with what physical effects, while the other half means the characters who operate with intention and precision. These two sides create the magic. The characters advance in the environment in a realistic way, operate their weapons with realistic motivations and expressions, and cause environmental damage on the other end. There’s more to it than “the robbers leave the bank and start blasting.”

A writer can’t control the stunt team but they can think in detail. Where are the robbers in relation to the cops? What’s keeping them alive? How long can their ammo last? What do they need to do to escape the police’s vision? It’s in the intricacies where you’ll find your own Heat.

John Wick – How to Build a Shootout Sequence, Part II

John Wick came out of nowhere to build a blockbuster franchise on nothing but a non-IP spec script from an unknown writer. And while one can argue that most of the success is due to the stunt talent and the invention of gun-fu combat, there is a written side to the gunplay as well…

Firstly, the shootouts are born from intention which gives them a point. The club sequence in the first movie has a clear finish line: Wick has to shoot his way through henchmen to get his hands on the mob prince. It’s not just whatever flashy gunplay, but instead, there’s a purpose behind it. It’s about getting from point A to point B while clearing the path of obstacles in the way, it’s about Wick catching the guy who took everything he had left before the guy escapes. There’s a destination and a motivational drive to get there. There’s a point.

Gunplay is only as compelling as the reason it exists for. Instead of writing “and then the hero starts blasting,” think about the essence behind the blasts. Is the hero trying to reach someone or something, or escape, or get to another weapon, or something else? Don’t make guns the point but rather the means to get to the point.

Secondly, the shootouts feature a variety of opponents and arms. The first sequel improves on the original film in many ways, and among them is the mindset to view opposition as more than interchangeable grunts. The concert sequence begins with Wick shooting his way through high-class security with a pistol, which is followed by him taking on a squad of pro killers with heavier weaponry, after which he has to go one-on-one with a fellow assassin. There’s a constant sense of escalation and progression within the shootout to keep it from getting stale.

There is no gripping gunplay without proper opposition to play guns against. It keeps things fresh when Wick has to take down grunts in one sequence and survive waves of contract assassins in the next and defeat the villain’s personal guards in the next. Instead of viewing the adversaries in a shootout as blank targets to shoot, think of it like levels in a video game: what is it that makes the next class of enemies different and tougher, and what’s needed to beat them?

Thirdly, the shootouts involve pain and injury to humanize the hero. What makes Wick stand out as an action lead is that he gets hurt – a lot. When he’s not busy being shot at and thrown off roofs and run over and stabbed, he loses the few things he has in life. The films are constantly looking for ways to hurt him, whether it means giving him a bulletproof suit that can be shot or a dog that can be killed. It’s easier to side with a killer-hero when he gets hit, and it’s easier to get invested when every hit taken is another reason to fear.

The audience cares about gunplay only with a reason to do so, be it vulnerability or sympathy or something else. An action hero who murders with ease and without any stakes involved is the quickest route to the straight-to-digital discount bin.

Ambulance – Bayhem as an Asset

Ambulance is a high-speed pursuit film from 2022 where two brother bank-robbers flee police in an ambulance with a dying cop on board as a hostage. It’s directed by Michael Bay whose signature Bayhem style of action is known to all from Bayformers, mostly for its idiocy. Yet, the style also carries strengths that make Bay one of the best in the action business…

Firstly, problems pile on top of problems to intensify the action. As the heroes pull off a quiet bank-heist, things keep going sideways. A cop shows up to do his business, the getaway car outside has engine trouble and gets the cop’s partner’s attention, a special-forces unit tracking the robbers sets up an ambush on the street. And when all these problems finally come to a head at once, the impact is like a miniature nuke, and it creates one of the most energetically hectic shootouts since Heat. All thanks to the fact that there are multiple hurdles active at once.

An opposite force equals action; many opposite forces equals action squared. Instead of a simple car chase with an ambulance, there’s more going on. The cop is bleeding out, the paramedic isn’t qualified to operate on him, surgeons need to be Facetimed to assist, the cop wakes up in the middle of surgery, the bullet erupts the spleen, the call with the surgeons cuts out… all while the chase is still ongoing. That’s how you get to action intensity like no other.

Secondly, action beats are pushed to practical extremes. The point of the bank-heist is to go horribly wrong and that’s indeed what happens: one robber gets run over by the getaway car, another gets his head blown off mid-sentence, and the hostage cop is fatally shot which is a criminal’s worst nightmare. The point of the break into act three is for the heroes to lose the cops and that’s indeed what happens: police choppers are lured to fly into a canal, a decoy ambulance explodes into a roadblock, and a cartel murder-mobile wreaks havoc on the police. Whatever is the main purpose behind the event, it’s pushed to its practical limit.

Not all movies share the same meters of action but in all movies the meter should be maxed out. While a cop chasing robbers can be exciting, it’ll always be more so if the cop doing the chasing is driven by a personal fury to save his dying hostage-partner no matter what it takes.

Thirdly, the action is spiced up with extra elements of variety. While a lot of this concerns production aspects here like with the drone camera and practical effects, it also extends to the script. It can mean adding comedy, like how the heroes start jamming to a song to break up the monotony of the chase. It can mean taking characters out of their comfort zone, like how the paramedic isn’t a surgeon and has to operate regardless. It can mean giving characters distinguishable shades, like how all the robbers play by their quirks in the robbery. Things don’t exactly go by the usual book, which is what ultimately sets them apart from the book.

Hate Michael Bay or love him, you do want to emulate his core mindset on action. The mindset that says, “Here’s the action scene… but what can I add to make it more?”

CHAPTER 9

GENRE: HORROR

Horror is perhaps the easiest genre to break in through as an unknown writer because it’s relatively cheap and simple. Horror audiences aren’t exactly the most demanding kind, and thus, all you truly need is a great hook for scares with good-enough execution. Unfortunately, or fortunately for those ready to put in effort to stand out, there’s a bit more to the process than opening up a blank page to write, “And then a scary thing pops out to scare the hero.”

The most vital component of a scary script is a unique source from which the scares originate. The more tangible and easily-understandable that source is, the better your chances of success. I love slow-burn, unoriented horror same as the next cinephile, but the fact is that general audiences want a clear reason to go to the theater – they want in the trailer and sometimes even in the poster. That’s why The Bye Bye Man is thirty times more successful than Triangle. It ain’t fair but it is what it is. Either roll the dice or weight it in your favor.

As to what that special source of horror could be, there are a few overall routes to take:

– A monster movie built on an intimidating rule. This is aliens that hunt with sound, a ghost that can attack only in darkness, a girl on TV who comes for whoever watches her videotape. The specificity of the threat makes clear the reason to fear.

– A survival movie built on a deadly situation. This is being stuck on a reef with a circling shark, being locked in a house with a blind murderer, visiting the parents of your white girlfriend. The hostile nature of the predicament is where the fear comes from.

– A real-world movie built on pop-culture. This is an AI-doll turning into a murderer, a deadly game of escape room, a boardgame trying to kill you. Familiar things become the thing to fear.

– A gimmick movie built on a paintjob. Smile is a very generic ghost-hunts-you story except that the ghost smiles. It has zero effect on the story that the ghost smiles but it’s enough to give the poster a signature look that stands out to casual audiences. It made $200 million.

With those horror routes having been said, in this chapter, let’s focus on how not to fumble the execution so badly that it takes away from whatever special source of scares you come up with.

A Quiet Place 2 – How to Weaken a Monster, Part I

A Quiet Place Part II represents writer-director John Krasinski’s choice to carry on without the original writers who created the concept. And while the overall quality is commendable thanks to great direction, the value of the monsters themselves is only reduced and drastically so. All of a sudden, the sound-hunting aliens become much less worthy of fear…

Firstly, the monsters are explored in an exclusively weakening manner. Following the end of the first movie, the heroes can now incapacitate the Death Angels with a piercing sound in order to shoot them dead, which happens quite a bit. The angels are now also much less competent in practice, whether it means being unable to pinpoint the location of people moving right next to them or being killed by an aluminum pole swung by a little girl. Not to mention that this time the angels are also given a new mortal weakness: they can’t swim. The more the movie establishes the Death Angels, the weaker and less threatening and unscary they seem.

A monster’s fear factor should evolve rather than devolve. The Xenomorphs in Aliens are no longer as inherently scary as in the first movie, which is why their threat level is increased with great numbers and with the existence of the queen. Instead of focusing only on weaknesses, find ways to compensate for them and patch them up to make your monsters worth more.

Secondly, the rules that the monsters are built on aren’t adhered to. Whereas A Quiet Place had barely any dialogue, the sequel forgets to live up to its title: people are talking and making sound left, right and center. All of which is based on justifications ranging from new barriers of safety like water to arbitrary mentions that the angels “can hear us only if they’re right above us.” Sound itself is not so threatening anymore as is the chance of making it while happening to be in the presence of the angels. It’s not so much a quiet place anymore as it is… a place.

A monster is only as effective and strong as the consistency of the rule it hunts by. If speaking out in the open in a world where sound kills you isn’t deadly anymore, then what exactly is the danger? If a human-hungry shark loses its ability to swim, what’s the point?

Thirdly, the monsters seem dumb due to facing dumb people. While some human characters are better than others, a lot of their actions that create danger don’t make much sense. The boy leaves the basement for no reason and gets in trouble. The girl enters an abandoned train to look for supplies she hasn’t been shown to need and gets in trouble. The family is left without the radio’s defense thanks to the girl and they get in trouble. It’s like the peril is forced into existence through stupidity and mistakes rather than through its own perilous nature. The only reason the island-finale can even happen is because an angel randomly drifts there on a boat.

The level that a monster exists on is equal to that of the characters facing it. If everything hinges on the world’s incompetence, it doesn’t exactly make the monsters feel too competent either.

Moonfall – How to Weaken a Monster, Part II

Moonfall isn’t exactly a horror movie but more so a disaster of a disaster movie about the moon falling. It will be covered more under a later genre, but in terms of this genre, there are some derogatory ways it treats the initially-formidable monster to reduce its level of threat…

Firstly, the monster doesn’t carry influence outside the scenes it exists in. When the astronaut hero Brian fixes a satellite at the start, he and his crew get attacked by an unknown black form which leaves a third of them dead. And once the form is gone after the time jump following the opening, it’s gone for real. Brian isn’t haunted by memories of the form in a way that would affect his actions despite his life having become a mess. Brian’s colleague Fowler doesn’t have to overcome obstacles to recover footage of the form but is instead given it for free as if the government wouldn’t care about hiding the truth about it. The monster isn’t present in scenes in which it’s not physically present, nor does it affect how they play out.

True fear is that which can never truly be gotten away from. In A Quiet Place, the Death Angels carry an influence on events and obstacles and actions whether they’re there or not, to a point where the boy flinches in terror when his dad starts hollering beside a waterfall. That’s dread.

Secondly, the monster’s rules become overcomplicated. Once Fowler sees the black form attack another space crew, the conclusion is made that it hunts electronic signals. Very straightforward so far, but then it keeps getting more convoluted when the heroes return to space. Turns out that the form attacks electronics only when there’s human life in the vicinity, and that it will cease attacking when the electronics are turned off even if it knows humans are there. All of which not only generates a comforting sense of control over the form, but also leads to confusion over aspects like how it’s able to sense a human presence in the first place.

The Death Angels in A Quiet Place attack sources of sound and that’s it – they don’t do it only when the sound is above 50hz and lasts for over 9.3 seconds. Just establish the rules and stick to them. The more complicated the reason to fear a monster gets, the less fear there is.

Thirdly, the monster’s mystery is destroyed with an excess of information. At the center of the moon, the heroes get a long exposition dump revealing the truth behind the black form: it’s an AI of a former human civilization that one day turned bad and now hunts artificial moons to destroy humanity. In other words, what begins as a shadowy space entity ultimately turns out to be another generation’s Amazon Alexa. It’s a truth that pulls away the shadows and replaces them with more technical confusion about things like why the AI went bad in the first place. With every piece of information, the form becomes more ordinary and less ominous.

The origin of the Death Angels isn’t clear and that only adds to their mystery. If revealing a monster’s origin is mandatory and amazing, fair enough. But if that origin is a shallow tale of an AI gone rogue, it could be better to let the viewer’s own dark imagination fill in the blanks.

Love and Monsters – How to Strengthen a Monster

Love and Monsters follows a young survivor, Joel, as he journeys across a radiated Earth full of deadly monsters for a chance to have a girlfriend. I feel you, Joel. And though the film isn’t pure horror, it does utilize some nifty tricks to increase the power of its monsters…

Firstly, the hero is the wrong person to face the monsters. Since the world is infested with various radiated beasts, it means that a survivor must be ready for everything – which Joel isn’t, as he has a habit of freezing at the sight of every new scary beast. That’s where the power comes from. Not only because it emphasizes Joel’s iron will to go on the journey despite being unfit for it, but also because it boosts the monsters’ aura of threat. When a giant insect makes Joel freeze in fear in the wild, with nobody there to save him like before, it seems like the most terrifying menace imaginable. The insect embodies that which the hero is not ready to take on.

The point isn’t for a hero to be inept but for the monster they face to symbolize the fear they’re not yet comfortable with and thus must struggle with. Although a ghostly demon might not be too scary for a veteran priest, for a young atheist it is very much so.

Secondly, the monsters have an emotional connection to the hero. While there isn’t just one radiated beast, for Joel they all represent the same thing: the world that took away his family. The giant insect he fights isn’t just a giant CGI insect but a representation of that which killed his mom. The giant worm he fights isn’t just a giant CGI worm but a representation of that which killed his dad and is now trying to kill his new dog-friend in the same way. While the monsters aren’t the specific one from Joel’s tragic past, the point is that they may as well be. That’s what loads them and the faceoffs against them with meaning beyond their CGI shells.

The amount of backstory depends on the movie, but it is useful to have some level of a bond between the hero and the monster they face – whether it’s born in the past or the present. It gives the fight against the monster emotional weight beyond the fight itself.

Thirdly, each monster-encounter is tougher and unique. The faceoff with the giant insect feels big and different because the insect resembles the one Joel couldn’t beat in the bunker and because this time he’s alone. The faceoff with the queen worm feels bigger and different because Joel almost died to tiny worms earlier and because the fight is more about sound than sight. The final faceoff with the crab-monster isn’t the biggest or different, but it still feels so, because it relies on a fresh emotional component: the idea that not all monsters are evil. The final fight isn’t ultimately about surviving a massive crab but about accepting that there’s more to life than survival. That above all is why the finale feels like it takes place at the very top.

Whatever your monster is, each confrontation with it should be its own ever-increasing challenge, be it via dynamics or setups or location or emotion or whatever. So long as the meetings with the monster don’t get repetitively stale, neither will the monster itself.

Monster Hunter – How Not to Strengthen a Monster

Monster Hunter follows an army captain’s journey through a monster-infested alternate reality back to Earth. It’s basically like an action-heavy version of Love and Monsters except it’s missing that movie’s key monster strengths, which doesn’t exactly help the result…

Firstly, the hero is the right person to face the monsters and lacks motive to do so. Once the Captain is thrown into the alternate reality, her goal becomes to get home but with no clear reason: she just wants to go home until she suddenly doesn’t want it anymore. That already makes her journey through the beasts quite shallow, and it’s only made worse by the fact that she’s the perfect candidate to go through them. As a hardened army commander, she can order her troops with confidence and shoot down targets with great talent and wield her entire body as a weapon. It does produce awesome visual candy but not much more – not compared to a coward standing up to defeat the giant insect that has always left his body frozen.

To build a monster with power, answer two questions: for what reason does the hero need to face it, and why is facing it a big deal for them? View your monster as something to fear and overcome rather than something to simply go beat.

Secondly, the monsters are worth only their visual appearance. The Captain does face various gigantic beasts from spiders to dragons, but they’re only ever what they are. There’s no value attached to them beyond their looks. No backstory of the Captain having lost her dad to a parasitic disease that devoured the dad’s body, which the spider laying eggs in her troops could represent. No metaphor where the Captain beating the spider would signify her beating the disease that she couldn’t save her dad from. It’s simply what it is… a big spider.

A monster is worth more than its body only by standing in place for something. What does the monster represent for the hero? What inner demon does the hero defeat by defeating the monster, be it anything from loneliness to loss? What is the spider beyond being a spider?

Thirdly, the monsters get easier which leaves the experience lopsided. When the Captain has to escape a pitch-black nest full of giant spiders that devoured her troops, it’s the most intense challenge in the film – and it’s the start of act two. After surviving that alone, it feels fairly simple to join others to beat a dinosaur that can move only in sand and a dragon that gets no proper buildup. There’s nothing wrong with those beasts but they just don’t live up. Especially if the spider buildup had been used at the end instead, like if the Captain had killed a spider-mother’s child and that vengeful spider then made the same tough journey to confront the Captain and her family at the end. That way, the ending would be about a personal clash between two killer-mothers, rather than about a group of badasses whacking at a CGI dragon.

For a monster to retain its value, each confrontation with it must feel bigger than the last. And if it can’t happen physically, emotional aspects can be used instead. The key word is feel.

Halloween – How to Lessen a Boogeyman, Part I

Halloween is a 2018 revival of the classic horror franchise that gets it back in form, at least for a short while. But although the film may work overall, there are a couple aspects that lessen the fear factor of the new Michael Myers. He still does his job because he’s Michael Myers, but for other masked boogeymen that don’t have the luxury, here’s something to consider…

Firstly, the boogeyman’s humanity is shown early, which is a blow to their inhumanity. At the start, Michael is shown to be a graying old man, multiple times, in broad daylight, including a front-row seat to see him wrestle a guy in a bathroom. And the result is that when he finally puts on his mask, he can’t disappear fully because the audience can still remember him as a graying old man underneath. It may not be an issue in this context since Michael Myers is a horror legend on his own, but not every boogeyman is so lucky. The point of a mask or any veil of mystery is to hide the grounding truth underneath to not let the viewer get on top of it.

Humanizing a boogeyman can bring three-dimensional value, but ideally, as late as possible to preserve fear up to that point. If the truth behind a killer ghost is that they’re actually an innocent victim seeking help, and it’s revealed in full right away, the audience will now see an innocent victim when the ghost tries to be scary. It doesn’t necessarily ruin the fear but it will reduce it, because to humanize means to make understandable and/or relatable. True dread comes from that which we can’t fully wrap our heads around or get a comfortable grip on, which is why it’s often best for the ghostly truth or the face under the mask to stay obscured until the time is right. Ideally, you’d want the audience to fear a ghost rather than recognize their side and think, “Yeah, I suppose the ghost has a point with all this.”

Secondly, the boogeyman isn’t driven by malicious intent to get something done but rather operates haphazardly in the moment. Once Michael is one with his mask, he doesn’t hold a larger purpose. He just walks around killing or not killing random people he meets until someone else with intentions sets him loose on the heroes like a dog. And that reduces his imposing image. There are gory kills, sure, but they’re not much beyond that. While random killings are scary in real life since they can affect anyone, movies don’t function like that. The audience isn’t afraid that Michael Myers will jump out of the screen to murder them – they need characters to care about and fear for. And if the main driving reasons to fear for those characters are coincidence and other characters, it doesn’t exactly build up Michael’s stature.

The level of motivation always depends on the boogeyman, but usually it is beneficial for a level to exist. While a ghost that haunts a family living in a house can produce good jump-scares, a ghost that haunts that family with increasing intensity toward a malicious destination is dread throughout. In film, evil operating by design most often dwarfs evils that don’t.

Halloween Ends – How to Lessen a Boogeyman, Part II

Halloween Ends concludes the reboot trilogy with an uptick but still not quite with top marks. It’s one of those lower-quality popcorn slashers where the kills are more enjoyable than scary, which is something to avoid when building a killer that the audience is meant to be scared of…

Firstly, the boogeyman doesn’t produce fear for the longest time and thus leaves the movie without fear for that time. Since Michael Myers is barely present in the first hour, there’s no proper basis for terror to be built on. There are some scares – born from little kids being rascals and older kids being bullies – but they’re all cheap red herrings and nothing more, without a consistent sense of true danger and dread. Michael’s absence seems to turn the movie into an indie drama because there’s nothing else in play to maintain proper horror with.

While the amount of scares depends on the film, you don’t want to stretch too thin. The writer of Sinister and Black Phone has a rule that something scary should happen at least every ten pages or the audience forgets they’re watching horror. That’s why it’s helpful to involve the boogeyman as early as you can, physically or in other ways. Red herrings only get you so far.

Secondly, the boogeyman mostly targets unknown or hated characters in a manner that lacks reason to fear. When Michael returns to the killing game around the midpoint, he teams up with a local psycho to get back at those who have done wrong, from neglectful doctors to annoying assistants to douchebag cops to bullies. The result of which is that the audience isn’t scared for the victims as much as they’re cheering the killers on. Michael does ultimately attack the heroes as well, but it takes ninety minutes, not to mention that it’s been seen multiple times across the franchise already. For most of the time, Michael is no longer a threat to be afraid of as much as he’s an anti-hero to root for, and it doesn’t exactly add to the dread.

For horror to be more than popcorn gore, the boogeyman must come off as a threat. And the only way that happens is if the boogeyman threatens characters we care about and fear for.

Thirdly, the boogeyman operates in an illogical world and thus can’t be taken too seriously. The cop’s death is built on him not calling in a dead body and following a potential murderer into a sewer without a gun. The assistant’s death is built on sound traveling only in light and not in darkness. The final fight is built on an old woman being able to overpower a nigh-supernatural old man twice her bodyweight. Most of the terror is constructed on situations so unrealistic and nonsensical that it’s difficult to view them beyond their confines of make-believe. It’s not an experience of terror as much as it’s a fictional movie with terror in it.

Suspension of disbelief is always personal, sure, but it’s also always best to reinforce it as much as possible. The more real that the world of the horror seems, the more nerve-rackingly palpable and up-close the horror will feel.

It: Chapter 2 – How to Lessen a Boogeyman, Part III

It: Chapter 2 brings the heroes back in town to revisit familiar events as adults without much new value to add, like if Endgame released after the first Captain America. The biggest fumble, however, is how Pennywise the Clown is reduced from a nightmarish evil into a mere clown…

Firstly, Pennywise’s first impressions don’t sell his danger enough to support the fear in following scenes. The movie opens with a young man being beaten and tossed into a river where Pennywise awaits to eat him. And while it does prove Pennywise as deadly, it ties the deadliness into an indirect context of him being a dog picking up scraps. It’s the guys doing the beating that leave the big mark – as long as we don’t run into them, we should be fine. In fact, the friend who doesn’t get beat to a pulp survives Pennywise just fine, not to mention that none of the characters are important enough to play a role in the movie anyway. It’s not quite enough to build Pennywise back up from him fleeing like a coward last time we saw him.

In the first movie, Pennywise introduces himself by luring a little kid relevant to the plot to a brutal death, and from that point on there’s no question about why to fear him. It’s by knowing that a boogeyman is the real deal that allows their scare scenes to be taken as such.

Secondly, Pennywise can be walked away from, which destroys the oppressive sense of inescapability. This time around, the heroes are adults with adult capabilities, including the ability to leave town at any moment. And if Pennywise’s threat can be rendered null by simply hopping in a car, it wrecks his power in half. The movie tries to combat the issue by having one hero say that they were all cursed and that they’ll probably end up taking their own lives if they leave, but it’s a sorry last-minute excuse at best. Truth is that Pennywise isn’t an ever-present cold breath in the neck anymore as much as he’s an inconvenience to leave in the dust.

In the first movie, Pennywise’s power comes from the fact that the kids are kids and they can’t leave town to escape him. Just like Freddy Krueger, he’s always there to meet you when it’s time. It’s like Eddie Murphy asks in his standup: “Why don’t white people just leave the house when there’s a ghost?” If you don’t have an answer, try harder to find it.

Thirdly, Pennywise’s methods of fear are known and thus comfortably familiar. Not only are his scares weakened by the fact that the heroes are now adults but there’s also the issue that we already know how it all works. We know that Pennywise needs fear to be a threat, and that the individual scare scenes are hallucinations weaponizing inner struggles, and that all the heroes survived into adulthood. Nobody in the audience believes that the girl is shaming the heavy kid in one of the flashbacks – everybody can see it’s Pennywise building up to a scare. And if the scare is already known to a point where it’s seen coming, what’s there to be scared of?

While a boogeyman’s threat must be clear, it must also be shrouded in shadow. Audiences need to know they have a reason to fear, yes, but the truest form of fear is that of the unknown.

The Curse of La Llorona – How to Lessen a Boogeyman, Part IV

The Curse of La Llorona follows a single mother harassed by a Ghost Lady who wants to drown her two children. There are many things to say about the movie, but to stay family-friendly, let’s just say that the Lady isn’t exactly the most effective of horror ghosts. Mostly because she’s not a ghost generating horror but rather an artificial accessory of the horror…

Firstly, the Ghost Lady’s abilities are inconsistent to a point of making no sense. Sometimes she can be deceived by hiding in a closet, while other times she’s omniscient. Sometimes she can be stopped by closing a window, while other times she can teleport. Sometimes she can control the wind and be seen only through an umbrella, while other times it’s not so. Her skills and methods seem to shift and change based on what the individual scares need them to be, which makes her less of a threat and more of a hollow construct of the writing.

The rules that a boogeyman is built on should be stuck to and made the most out of – The Death Angels in A Quiet Place don’t start flying just to serve one scene because it’d be dumb. Build scares from the evil abilities instead of building evil abilities from the scares.

Secondly, the Ghost Lady doesn’t act on her motives, which reduces her threat level. Her main goal is to take the hero’s kids and drown them, and thanks to her physical nature she could do it time and time again. All she has to do to get the boy is open the door when he’s hypnotized, all she has to do to drown the girl is pull her into the pool when she’s alone. But instead, she reveals herself to the boy’s mom and shows visions of herself to the girl through an umbrella, since otherwise the movie would just end. Her motivational purpose is created with such a lack of available progression that she can’t actually do anything until the finale.

A boogeyman’s drive should be the kind that can be acted on always, like how Pennywise in It needs to feed on fear to become strong enough. If scares are built on a ghost waiting around for no reason other than the fact that it’s not the third act yet, the audience will see through it.

Thirdly, the Ghost Lady’s defeat isn’t relevant to its nature of existence and thus feels anti-climactic. Since her presence is heavily built around children and water, one would expect the finale to revolve around those topics. But no, she’s defeated when the mom stabs her with a wooden cross. What the hell? What’s the point of building a specific backstory-formula of “XYZ” if the answer is just going to be the same “STAB” that applies to every basic horror and non-horror antagonist ever? Sure, apparently the cross is made from the kind of trees that grew around the pond where the Ghost Lady drowned her own children, but that’s it. All that happens in the finale in practice is that she gets stabbed in an attic and dies. What a waste.

The specialty of a boogeyman should serve as the basis for their last stand and defeat, like how the Death Angels are beaten with sound. The defeat doesn’t have to link directly but it does have to be smarter and more relevantly meaningful than simply being stabbed or shot.

Malignant – How to Lessen a Boogeyman, Part V

Malignant harkens back to campy, low-quality 80s horror flicks by being the same with a modern twist. And since that means that horror master James Wan is purposefully making a non-scary horror movie with a supernatural killer as the main evil force, it offers a few more useful pitfalls to avoid when trying to generate true, non-parody dread…

Firstly, the killer is shown to not be a threat to the hero, which teaches the viewer to not fear for the hero. When the pregnant protagonist, Madison, falls and gets knocked out while fleeing the killer near the start, it leaves her open for death. Yet instead, she wakes up at the hospital with apparently having lost her baby in the fall – which, sad as it is, already establishes that she herself is not in harm’s way. When the killer returns to scare her more later on, it’s clear nothing will happen to her because it already would’ve. The fear perished with the baby.

For your boogeyman to be scary, keep the danger they impose on the hero and other characters as alive and viable as possible. A hero with instantly visible plot armor doesn’t exactly help.

Secondly, the killer’s method of creating scares has no justifiable basis and thus leaves the scares forced. Early on, there’s a nightly scene where Madison’s husband is cluelessly walking around the house as lights and electronics keep turning on and off on their own. It’s a very well-filmed series of frights but with one issue: it’s pointless. The killer ultimately murders the husband without causing any fear or pain to him whatsoever, which means he could’ve just done it to begin with. The scariness seems to be born not from the killer’s actions within the narrative but from him simply being scary for the audience, which makes it quite dumb.

While horror films do exist to scare the viewer, narrative is always king. A boogeyman’s fear factor should be organically justified in the movie’s context rather created solely for the viewer.

Thirdly, the killer’s blanket of oppression is shared and lightened. Since Madison has no proof of the killer, it’s a struggle for her to convince people to believe her crazy story, which is an effective way to make her and the viewer feel helplessly alone. That’s until the killer calls the cops to out his own existence. And just like that, the massive weight pressing on Madison’s chest gets support from others. It’s a big relief and thus the opposite of what horror strives for.

Heavy is the fear that must be carried alone or with little help. Don’t ruin it until necessary.

Fourthly, the killer is shown to be physically vulnerable in a way that reduces his shadowy inhumanity. For the longest time, the killer is perceived to be supernatural in nature, until a midpoint chase clearly shows him stumbling and bumbling like the rest of us. And it’s that comfortably human physicality that reduces his image. Familiar isn’t as scary as the unknown.

Try to keep your boogeyman as physically unrelatable as possible. The moment Freddy Krueger became a bumbling fool was the moment when his aura of dread went down the drain.

CHAPTER 10

GENRE: THRILLER

The thriller genre, next to horror, is probably an unknown writer’s best chance at finding success with an original script, especially when talking about contained thrillers. What the contained part means is that the movie takes place in a single location to make it simple and fast – and thus cheap – to produce. The problem is that at this point most locations have already been mined and cleared of their gold, from homes to vehicles to workplaces to phone booths to underwater bases to caskets in the ground as well as in space. But if you can come up with a unique contained setting with a unique angle for an exciting narrative, go for it.

A key difference between thriller and horror is the former’s reliance on tension and suspense over fear. While both utilize the same uncomfortable sense of something being wrong, in a thriller that sense plays more of an everlasting role in the background instead of jumping out at the audience again and again. To dig much deeper would quickly turn into semantics, but since I have to fill this page out with something, here’s how I would separate the two:

– A horror movie is about running away from a clown-mask killer wielding a chainsaw.

– A thriller movie is about studying evidence of chainsaw murders to figure out who is behind the clown mask and to stop them.

Honestly, even that’s not such a great distinction because it makes it seem like thrillers involve detectives solving a case, which isn’t always the case. Panic Room is about a mother surviving a home invasion with her daughter and it’s a thriller all the way. I guess it comes down to the fact that in thrillers the hero’s actions and motives extend well beyond their own survival.

The point is to just write what you want to write and not obsess too much about the detailed lines of where a thriller begins and ends – it gels pretty seamlessly with other genres from horror to action. And so, in this chapter, let’s look at movies inhabiting different parts of the thriller genre to see what useful lessons the evidence found in them might lead to.

Glass – The Dangers of Containment

Glass concludes M. Night Shyamalan’s Unbreakable trilogy with his most shocking twist yet: it takes place almost entirely in a hospital. It’s not quite the usual contained thriller for upcoming writers to learn from – since it’s a franchise movie with a $20 million budget – but it does hold some useful warning signs about how containment can turn harmful and boring…

Firstly, the contained setting isn’t justified by the premise. The movie begins with David Dunn using his superhero powers to locate and save a group of hostages captured by the Horde. And that’s what happens right away. Then, they both get taken to a mental hospital where a doctor sits them down with Mister Glass to convince them that their powers aren’t real, which is what most of the movie actually is. What!? Not only does it serve no point because their powers have already been established as real, but it’s also a major letdown because the movie goes from a detective story to sitting around in rooms. The containment feels like a downgrade.

Buried begins with a man in a coffin and ends the same way – the containment is baked into the premise. Had Glass’s premise been about Mister Glass getting the Horde in the hospital to unleash him, with Dunn having to restore order like Batman in Arkham Asylum, it would’ve warranted the containment. But to tease a big plot involving the city’s fate only to be stuck in rooms is just frustrating. The only real basis for the containment seems to be to save money.

Secondly, the contained setting isn’t progressed through narratively. Most scenes in the hospital are the same: the heroes sit around while the doctor spouts meaningless exposition at them. Nothing happens and nothing gets done, the condition of the plot is the same at the fifty-minute mark as it was at the twenty-minute mark. Which is extra deadly in containment since there can’t be variety even in the environment as it’s just one bare room to sit in after another. For the longest time, it’s like watching grass grow but being stuck in a small box to do so.

Flightplan keeps things alive and fresh by continuously evolving the narrative: the hero boards a plane with her daughter, the daughter disappears and apparently never boarded, the hero begins a search of her own, and so on. Had the hospital rooms in Glass been used as obstacles to overcome to get to the next story point, maybe it wouldn’t have been so boring.

Thirdly, the contained setting is inhabited by inactive characters. Mostly, the actions of the main characters boil down to being told stuff by others. Dunn doesn’t put in any effort to find a way out or to resist the propaganda fed to him, the Horde tries to get out again and again but mostly for comedic effect rather than with a real endgame, while Mister Glass doesn’t even change his expression until an hour in. It’s a combination of people who do nothing and a place where nothing happens, and it produces a result just as exciting as one can imagine.

For a static setting to work, the characters in it have to be non-static. Had Dunn and the others shown at least some larger agency in the sitting-around scenes, perhaps it could have worked.

The Winter Soldier – How to Evoke Dread

Captain America: The Winter Soldier is the first MCU entry to prove that superhero isn’t a definitive genre. There may be heroes with superpowers in the movie but the movie itself is more of a conspiracy action-thriller built on an underlying feeling of uncertainty and dread. It’s not so much about punching as it is about the shadowy question of what or who to punch…

Firstly, dread is born from the threat having no clear tangible form. Cap used to have things easy when all he had to do was run up to the enemies and fight them, whether it was aliens or the Third Reich. This time it’s very different, though, because for the longest time his enemy is invisible. He can fight hired pirates and gunmen and a masked assassin, but it never gets him closer to the entity responsible – it remains unknown where the Winter Soldier will appear from or who exactly is blocking Fury’s access to files. The danger is ever-present and all around, and all Cap can do is wait for that danger to strike and react when it does. That’s what makes him feel powerless and his fight feel uncomfortably close to home.

True anxiety is about the lack of control over one’s own battle. In the scene of Fury being attacked by impostor police, the danger is shrouded in the unknown – it’s unclear who the attackers are or what they’re after or what they’re willing to do to get it. It’s like fighting a wraith with no clear limit to its physical reach.

Secondly, dread is born from the ally side being a minefield of untrust. From the Allies to the Avengers, Cap has always had a safety-net of friends to fall back on, but not so much here, as no one around him is a friend. Both Widow and Fury are liars, Shield is rotten and hostile, the police isn’t the police, and even his neighbor isn’t really his neighbor. It gets to a point where the person Cap knows the least – Sam – is the person he can trust the most. And not only does that force Cap to grow as a person to make his own choices outside of flags and insignias, but it also places him in a world where nowhere feels safe or secure. The danger can come at any moment from every direction, including from right beside him.

True anxiety is about not being sure whether or not you can trust those around you that you’re meant to trust. The elevator scene of Cap getting flanked by more and more Shield personnel is built on exactly that: are his allies just using the elevator or is something bad about to happen because they’re not truly his allies? It’s like having to live in a constant state of readiness and alarm, with nobody to be comfortable with and with nowhere to relax.

Thirdly, dread is used to turn information hostile to hide exposition. This is something I already looked at in the exposition section of the Scenes & Scene Tools chapter, so check it out to know more. Or just watch the Zola basement scene and keep an eye on how even the information in this movie is given a nature of danger and hostility.

Seven – How to Build a Detective Murder Mystery, Part I

Seven is the sole reason behind the destruction of the detective-thriller genre in a post-1995 world. That’s because the bar was lifted so high that every film that followed was either a poor copy of Seven or just wasn’t Seven – at least until Fincher returned to revamp things years later. If there are key lessons to learn about the topic, this is the movie to learn them from…

Firstly, the crime scenes tell a story of something and/or someone. The first victim’s house is a collection of puzzle pieces that construct the truth of what occurred. The cockroaches allude to long inhuman conditions, the excess of spaghetti sauce gives an idea of the activity, the binds are a sign of no free will, the vomit-bucket a sign of pushing limits, the barrel-mark in the head a sign of force. The audience goes into the murder scene knowing as little as the heroes and assembles the story of what happened and who it happened to with them. Much more engaging than staring at gruesome violence as the necessary exposition is given by another character.

A crime scene should be an act of acquiring and assembling key bits of information. The body of a mutilated model with a phone taped to one hand and sleeping pills to the other tells a clear tale of who she was and what happened. The audience can participate rather than just watch.

Secondly, the world of the murders is a character that puts it all in context. The motivation behind the killings seems to be to expose the sins of modern society, and the city indeed reflects that: both neglect and violence run rampant, be it in form of uncaring cops or cheating realtors or mindless crime. Not to mention that the city also carries a major presence in scenes, with places from barbershops to libraries to apartment buildings, and with people from shopkeepers to street-corner junkies. The world and its people seem real, which allows the murders to have an existence beyond a vacuum in a way that makes them and the investigation into them matter.

Whatever realm a murder mystery concerns, be it the streets or high-class social circles, that realm should be opened up. The people side of The Dark Knight falls a bit short because the people’s side of Gotham isn’t explored – most scenes take place in penthouses or mob kitchens or hospitals in the midst of exploding. A detective’s case is only as real as the world it’s set in.

Thirdly, the investigation grows intensely personal at the end. For a long time, the heroes simply look into murders, which is gripping to follow but ultimately nothing more. That’s until John Doe shows up in the third act to take the heroes on a trip that’s all about them. It builds up to a finale so full of intimate emotional power that no spectacle could ever match it, and it’s also helped by the fact that Doe has been constructed as a three-dimensional person motivated by realistic human (ir)rationality. It’s ominously authentic and uncomfortably up-close.

While a detective thriller can take many routes, it should end up at the most emotional of ends: the hero dealing with the case on a personal level in a way that affects and alters them.

The Batman – How to Build a Detective Murder Mystery, Part II

The Batman reboots the caped crusader on the silver screen for the umpteenth time, only this time with a touch of emo. What makes it a very special version, however, is that it leans heavily into Batman solving a bloody mystery along the lines of Seven. And to avoid falling in Seven’s shadow, it does familiar things with somewhat different choices and outcomes…

Firstly, the crime scenes tell a story of the murderer. While Batman does assemble some puzzles of evidence, most of the murders are established with Riddler beforehand to show how he does what he does. It does take away from the mystery of the crimes, yes, but the flipside is that Riddler’s image as an antagonist is built up: he seems to be a violent, fearless, extremely physical barbarian. An image that’s then turned upside down when he turns out to be a baby-faced teenage adult. It’s the contrast between his physical behavior and personality that gives him layers and makes him much more than yet another poor copy-paste of John Doe.

While a crime scene should be a story, it depends on the film of what and who. Each Riddler victim conveys something new about the point of his killings, but they also shed light on him, which for a Batman villain fits more than being a nobody. Although, in a sequel, it could be cool to not know who the murderer is and figure it out with Batman, one crime scene at a time.

Secondly, the world of the murders is given life by making it part of the characters. Much like in Seven, the dark side of Gotham is very thoroughly explored through various lenses, from vandalism to robbery to substance abuse. But Gotham itself also becomes deeply rooted in the main journeys. Bruce’s parents established a fund for the city’s poor, which was corrupted and now serves as the reason for Riddler’s murder spree. That’s the basis. The crimes don’t happen in a vacuum or just in any city but instead in the city that’s tied to the DNA of the characters. That’s what makes the investigation seem larger and worth more than its individual parts.

For a murder investigation to come to life, the space around it has to play a worthy part in the inputs and outcomes. And a city developed through heroes and villains is worth a lot.

Thirdly, the investigation has various personal threads throughout. Even though the finale relies more on spectacle, there are many intimate elements on the way to it that make the case matter. It matters to Bruce because it concerns his parents and their fate, it matters to Selena because it concerns her friend and mother, it matters to Riddler because it shaped his life – and because it matters to them, it matters to the audience. It’s not a whatever crime investigation to go through and forget but rather something that gets up-close and personal through various avenues, like when Batman sees part of himself in the dead Mayor’s son.

Investigations with the most power are the personal ones, like how Bruce’s inner journey is about recognizing his own faults through Riddler – they’re both orphan vigilantes who spy and assault in the name of vengeance. The case hits home enough for Bruce to change and grow.

Black Widow – A Spy Thriller Without the Thrill

Black Widow takes the MCU into a gritty, Bournelike spy reality with secret programs and human conditioning and hyper-real action. And though it succeeds at many things like the main sister-relationship, being a spy thriller isn’t among them. Thrills just aren’t allowed to thrill…

Firstly, twists and turns are nullified by a lack of suspenseful leadup. When Natasha gets ambushed by Taskmaster at her hideout in Norway, it’s out of nowhere. There’s no ominous buildup or a sense of something being wrong – we simply go get gas and boom. The deadly turns seem to just unceremoniously occur, whether it’s a squad of widows blowing in or an armored truck plowing in or the mother admitting to a betrayal. It’s like lightning without a looming thunderstorm: sudden and barely noticeable. Had the mother’s betrayal been built up to with Natasha finding unsettling evidence of the mother still working for the program, there would’ve been more substance to the lightning. Not just the fraction of a second it appears for.

The thrill of twists and turns comes from the runway of tension leading to them. If it’s right away clear that Yelena is the one waiting for Natasha in the apartment and that she’s already broken free of her conditioning… what is there to feel suspense because of?

Secondly, threats are lessened by their incompatibility with the world. The Widow program is initially grounded in a very authentically grim reality in which abducted girls get conditioned into assassins striking from the shadows. Yet, when those assassins go out on daylight missions later, they wear Widow bodysuits adorned with the Widow logo, which doesn’t gel with the established world and its rules. It’s hard to take Taskmaster walking up the street in her armor too seriously when you know that, if she really did so, her pictures would fill Twitter instantly and ruin the whole secrecy aspect. You can’t show Putin in the opening montage and then suddenly give the villains a flying base in the finale – that turns your reality into nonsense fast.

Bourne agents are a thrilling threat because they don’t stand out – that’s how assassins work. To build threat on one kind of world and then make the rules follow an entirely different world dulls the threat. A film’s reality can be molded like how The Winter Soldier makes the flying ships part of the plot, but that reality must be abided by or else it stops being real.

Thirdly, the level of seriousness is reduced by practical limitations. The movie does seem to play beyond usual MCU levels with Natasha killing a girl and all widows losing their motherhood. Yet that game that’s played isn’t backed up. Natasha doesn’t kill the girl but just watches her death happen, the loss of ovaries is mostly treated as a joke. The darkness that’s utilized doesn’t work because it’s at half-strength: Natasha’s clash with Taskmaster lacks a direct-enough hostile bond and all fights for survival are moot since clearly everyone will survive. The movie “plays” on a level it can’t play on and “does” things it can’t do.

In Bourne, anything that can happen might truly happen since people are shown to do anything, including Bourne executing innocents. The game that’s played is real and so too is the thrill.

The Tomorrow War – How to Make More out of Thrill

The Tomorrow War sends a present-day dad to fight aliens in the future as if doing so today wasn’t exciting enough. That said, while the topic of concept perhaps isn’t handled in the most graceful or organic manner, there are useful aspects in play under other topics worth learning from. Some of them get touched in a later chapter, but the one applying here is a nifty trick the film uses to repeatedly increase the level of thrill within sequences…

Firstly, scenes and sequences gain suspense by occurring against initial plan. The heroes are meant to have seven days to prep for the future war, only to have to leave much earlier and unprepared. They’re meant to time-travel to a safe-zone, only to appear at a much deadlier location which hinders their numbers to life-support levels from the get-go. They’re meant to extract a team of scientists before aliens arrive, only to find the scientists dead and be forced to grab the research and flee as fast as possible. They’re meant to be extracted with Humvees, only for the extraction to be destroyed in a way that forces them to outrun the aliens on foot while an airstrike closes in. Damn.

Overall, events unfold under such terrible conditions compared to expectations that it makes success seem that much more out of reach. Every time the movie alters the deal for the worse, the audience has more reason to fret for the heroes and their chances of completing the task.

The vital thing about turning plans for the worse, though, is to ensure that they stay believable and organic. The fact that civilians ship off to war with almost no prep at all makes it seem quite pointless. The fact that the only basis for the time jump to go wrong is one guy saying that it’s not working makes it seem quite forced. But when done well, altering the deal is a great tool to increase the sense of anxiety felt by the audience. If the plan is to inject aliens with a toxin while they sleep, the scene will pack that much more dreadful thrill if the entire alien colony wakes up in the process.

CHAPTER 11

GENRE: SUPERHERO/EPIC

Movies in the superhero and epic genres aren’t usually for newer writers to worry about since nowadays they all cost a bazillion dollars to make and are expected to make a gonzillion dollars in return. Thus, they only get developed internally at studios with established writers. There are a few specific scenarios, however, in which knowing about the area might come in handy:

1) You get far enough in your career to be considered for these projects at studios.

2) You write your own sample material within the genre to convince studios to hire you.

3) You find a cool new idea within the genre that can be produced for a cheaper price.

As for the third scenario, I’ve seen a couple examples. There’s a spec script called Absence of Courage which is about a mother seeking to murder a superhero who accidentally killed her daughter. And there’s another spec which I forget the title of but it’s about ordinary criminals getting trapped in a superhero’s lair and needing to escape. Both of these screenplays were original and inventive enough to get attention and be bought, so, clearly, with the right financially plausible idea it is possible. Who wouldn’t love to see a movie in which a robber has to flee a Batman-like vigilante after a bank-heist gone wrong?

As for the second scenario – of sample material – a great example is a writer called Michael Waldron who wrote a goofy time travel comedy script. It’s not the easiest thing to sell but guess what happened. The script found its way to Kevin Feige who loved it so much that he hired Waldron to write all their big MCU multiverse projects from Loki to Multiverse of Madness. The guy went from a nobody into a rockstar overnight, just because he cooked up something he could be hired off of. And so, whatever big Hollywood genres you want to work on, there is a chance to get a foot in by writing similar material to market yourself with. Sometimes it can be worth it to explore things and tell your inner doubts, “Hold up, let me cook.”

So, in this chapter, let’s investigate some of the foundational cores under these bigger superhero and epic movies to try to figure out what works and what doesn’t, just in case.

Age of Ultron – How to Mature Your Superheroes

Avengers: Age of Ultron isn’t exactly the MCU’s flagship movie, but at same time, it does represent a big step toward adulthood from the original Avengers. And while a lot of that is due to the work done by earlier Phase 2 entries like The Winter Soldier, the gap between the first two Avengers films in terms of maturity is useful to understand nonetheless…

Firstly, superhero personalities extend beyond their cores in a way that fleshes them out. What you see in Avengers is often what you get: Tony’s a cocky billionaire and Cap’s an upright soldier and Widow’s a cool femme fatale. Whereas Ultron uses Scarlet Witch to dig deeper into who the heroes are. Tony has a toxic obsession to fix the upcoming doom he feels responsible for. Cap is haunted by the thought of not belonging. Widow is ashamed of her past and herself in a manner that forms a bond between her and Banner who feels the same. There’s more to characters than what their signature outfits and archetypes sell. They feel like people.

The point is to dig into superheroes beyond the color of their capes, much like The Boys does. What if Superman is an insecure a-hole? What if the Flash lacks a sense of responsibility? Very extreme examples, yes, but that mentality is the key to escaping simplistic archetypes.

Secondly, domestic conflicts take forms beyond the physical to load them with emotion. There is infighting in Avengers but often at face value – whether it’s Hulk attacking others because he’s Hulk, or a magic scepter making the team bicker over Shield’s weapon plans in one scene despite the plans playing no bigger part. Whereas in Ultron, it’s more about individual motivations and angles. Cap and Tony clash over how to best save the world, Banner clashes with Widow over not feeling good enough for her, and Thor clashes with his own insecurities which make him that much less boring. The conflict isn’t isolated bickering and punching but instead about something more that continues from beginning to end. Even the physical infights take place in populated areas involving the toll of consequences.

The point is to view domestic conflict through a lens of individuality. Cap and Tony’s argument at Hawkeye’s farm is more of a passive-aggressive disagreement over an ongoing matter than momentary bickering fueled by a MacGuffin, which makes it feel that much more adult.

Thirdly, world-threatening motives are explored on a smaller level to make them matter. The plot of Avengers is about Loki attacking the Earth for Thanos for reasons that appear shortly as words: apparently he’s angry at Thor for what happened in another movie. In Ultron, the plot is about Tony building Ultron to save the world, which creates a point of contention that touches everyone: logic versus emotion. Ultron sees robotic evolution as the only salvation, while the Avengers see life only for its organity. That’s what fuels the big world-concerning battle. Do you ensure life by sacrificing organity or risk life by trusting humanity?

The point is to drive the big external side with intimacy. The audience doesn’t care about the world – what they care about is what the world means within the context of the movie.

Infinity War – Managing a Massive Cinematic Team-up

Avengers: Infinity War pulls off the impossible by creating a functioning movie out of multiple movies worth of content. It does have the benefit of using pre-established material and characters, but still, the way it manages to unite it all into one efficient experience is amazing…

Firstly, separate roads lead to the same destination. In order to limit the insane amount of character paths, the paths are divided into more comprehensible groups: Tony’s group heads to Titan to steal Thanos’ gauntlet, Cap’s group heads to Wakanda to destroy the mind stone, while Thor’s group heads to forge him a weapon to kill Thanos with. And in addition to the divvying, all the groups also exist to serve the same overall purpose of stopping Thanos from using the stones to snap away half of life. No matter who we’re with or when or where, it’s always about progressing the same central matter of the stones, either from the heroes’ side or from Thanos’. Despite the large number of perspectives, it’s always one movie.

Think of it as multiple roads running in unison to the same place. It’s much easier to not get lost there than with multiple roads leading all over with often no place there at the end.

Secondly, individual motivations push against the opposite side. The emotional drives of the heroes do vary a lot on a personal basis, from Star-lord wanting to save Gamora to Thor seeking revenge to Wanda trying to save her partner. But what’s crucial is that all of them directly resist the antagonistic drive. For Thanos to complete what he’s driving for, he’s required to do the opposite, which is to kill Wanda’s partner and not let Thor have his revenge and not return Gamora to Star-lord. While motives are individual as they should be, their power still contributes to the main motivational clash to result in one big emotional movie.

All daggers of conflict should point in one of two primary directions: the one that supports or the one that opposes. The directions of individual drives can live and turn during the journey, but they should never not tie into the larger, central conflict. A lone dagger is good for nothing.

Thirdly, characters carry distinct individual worth. When Tony’s group faces off with Thanos on Titan, each member has their own part in the clash. Spidey has his acrobatics and Tony has his nanotech and Strange his magic and Drax his strength and Quill his alien gear and Mantis her sleep-inducing personality (joke). All their skills and methods carry clearly separate identities in the larger pot, down to the visual appearance, in a way that none of them overlap or become redundant. That’s the mentality to make the most out of much: every character must inhabit a different slot or be eliminated from the equation. It’s pointless for a movie to feature many versions of the same character unless the point is for them to be one and the same.

The more of something you have, the less each is worth. Every character needs an individual purpose, whether it means their role or their actions or their responsibilities or their combat style. If one equals all the rest (Superman), then what’s the point of the rest (Josstice League)?

Hellboy – Fumbling a Massive Cinematic Team-up

Hellboy is a 2019 reboot of the buff red demon that tries its hardest to be its own Infinity War. It features a big plot about finding artifacts that can create an unstoppable force, a long list of characters coming and clashing together from all backgrounds, and a variety of locations in all corners of existence. The difference is that unlike Infinity War, it crumbles under that excess…

Firstly, the plot doesn’t involve the hero until much later. While a scary man-bear-pig is running around collecting six artifacts to awaken an ancient witch, Hellboy doesn’t do or even know anything about it until there’s one left. Instead, he spends his time squaring off with random giants and British hunters that have nothing to do with the plot, which reduces things into a directionless mess. And even when he finally does get on track, it’s not helped by the fact that the deadline gets pushed further and further back. First we have to stop the witch from being awakened, and once she’s awake we have to stop her from getting her powers, and once she has her powers we have to defeat her before it’s “too late.” It’s like nothing really matters.

A movie doesn’t truly begin until the hero(es) joins the plot – up to that point, it’s a mess without purpose. And the less the hero’s actions matter in the mess, the worse it grows.

Secondly, characters lack proper buildup and substance. The number of people around Hellboy is just as ambitious as in Infinity War: he has partners and past acquaintances and new colleagues and historical friends like King Arthur and Rasputin and a variety of enemies like the man-bear-pig and the witch and more. And the issue is that there are way too many characters to develop or even establish in one movie, which leaves them so hollow that their existence revolves mostly around talking about themselves or others. When Hellboy loses his friend at the start, we don’t care since we just met him. When Hellboy meets Baba Yaga, we can’t take it too seriously since she’s in one scene. It’s a hundred heads without a single face.

Characters should be featured only when there’s time for them to offer value. Thor losing Heimdall amounts to something because it’s built on their established relationship. Hellboy losing someone and reuniting with someone else is built on nothing and amounts to nothing.

Thirdly, locations aren’t visited based on motivational drive. Hellboy does go to a lot of places – from multiple countries to hell on Earth to the strangest corners of existence – but almost never of his own volition. He travels to England because he’s told to and meets his old friend because he’s taken there and visits Baba Yaga’s cabin because… well, because he just kind of ends up there. Not only does the lack of motivational drive nullify the charge going into every new scene and location, but it also leaves it all confusing since the audience has no idea why Hellboy is suddenly having dinner with Baba Yaga. It’s almost like a fever dream.

Every location and scene should be the next step in the hero trying to get what they’re after. Without it, odds are that all you have is a mess of visually distinct places and events.

Clash of the Titans – When Epicness isn’t Earned

Clash of the Titans sends the half-human son of Zeus, Perseus, on a journey through ancient Greece and all its mythological perils to get revenge on Hades. And it’s that grand, inherently epic nature of the material that makes the movie collapse under its own magnitude…

Firstly, the hero isn’t strong enough to live up to his epicness, which leaves his journey bare and plain. While Perseus initially forms a strong drive of hatred when Hades kills his family, that drive is soon ruined when the journey turns him into a pawn. He heads off to kill the Kraken instead of Hades just because a woman he’s never met says that’s how to defeat Hades. He overcomes obstacles mostly by being saved from them, whether it’s giant scorpions or poison in his veins. He gets given things for free to further the plot, from heavenly swords to coins of the underworld. As a whole, Perseus the son of Zeus has so little specialty in his actions that most of what he does could be done by Jim the son of Peter who lives next door.

To make the most out of epicness, characters must be able to wield it – if all Zeus does is sit in heaven and whine, he’s not really worthy of his name. As the genre implies, the son of God has to live up to his special title and do things in a manner that average heroes couldn’t.

Secondly, the creatures don’t earn their epic status in the context of the movie, which makes the clashes with them average at best. The Kraken serves as the final hurdle but without proper buildup outside of occasional verbal mentions – it’s meant to be a big deal just because it’s the Kraken. Medusa does live up to her name with an excellent leadup and encounter but without any organic connection to the story – she’s presented as a solution to any problem including the Kraken problem. The legendary creatures either aren’t made legendary in the story or they’re DLC-like extra additions that have nothing to do with the story.

For epic creatures to bring value to a movie, they must be epic as well as be part of the movie. The Kraken would’ve felt more powerful had its power been showcased in practice before the end. Medusa would’ve felt more organically important had she been established to be the only being in the story’s history to once make the Kraken back down.

Thirdly, the world isn’t airtight enough to logically carry its epicness, which makes it all nonsense. One half of this is inconsistent power dynamics: the Kraken is apparently stronger than any god but still too weak to be used against Zeus by Hades, and Hades is apparently too strong to be faced by Perseus but still too weak to stop Perseus’ journey himself. Okay?? The other half is inconsistent motivations: Hades thinks he can’t just insta-kill Perseus due to Zeus yet he mortally poisons him nonetheless, and common humans know for sure that gods are real yet they defy them for an unknown reason nonetheless despite praying being free. Huh???

Whatever epic levels you play on, the levels have to be kept in check. Things can’t become nonsensical just because it’s the only way to make things work. Earn the epic world you’re in.

Moonfall – When a Disaster Movie Becomes a Disaster

Moonfall is a massive disaster movie of the most epic proportions: it’s about the moon falling and crashing into the Earth! Unfortunately, in addition to the poor monster-handling, there are also a couple core issues with the disaster side that turn the movie into its very own disaster…

Firstly, the disaster’s physical effects take forever to appear. Although the audience is aware of the moon being out of orbit early, for a long time it doesn’t matter. Cities are apparently descending into unlawful chaos on the news, yet it doesn’t concern the hero, Brian, who’s at home fixing a car that never gets driven. The moon enthusiasts apparently need to find a solution to fix the moon’s orbit, yet all it means in practice is talking bull at a hotel. Even when the falling moon’s effects finally do reach Earth, they’re weak enough to allow the heroes to stay idle. All Brian and his friends must do to escape a flood is go upstairs to sleep in a hotel room until the army comes to pick them up. Big whoop. For the first fifty percent, it’s a disaster movie without a disaster, which doesn’t quite immerse the viewer into the experience.

In 2012, the effects of the upcoming doomsday are in play right away in a way that pushes the heroes into action, from escaping the fall of California to fleeing a meteor shower in Yellowstone. Audiences don’t watch disaster movies to wait an hour for the disaster.

Secondly, the disaster’s B-plot isn’t strong enough to earn its screentime. When the heroes head off into space to fix the moon, the movie introduces a subplot of their children driving to safety on Earth, which is meant to give the audience a reason to care about saving the Earth. The issue, however, is that the bonds with the children are artificial and nonexistent. Brian doesn’t interact with his son until briefly at the midpoint, while his colleague’s occasional interactions with her son have been short and superficial at best. Not to mention that the events of the B-plot come off as forced and insignificant compared to the A-plot. The kids get robbed for no clear reason and overcome obstacles with minimum challenge, like when they find oxygen without any sort of chaos at the scene. It all feels so unnecessary and meager compared to the moon mission that it’s just frustrating to cut away from the moon mission to it.

While 2012 isn’t the most emotional film, the personal bonds of the heroes and villains are explored in a significant enough way for them to have value of their own. The audience is fine with cutting to a hero’s father on a cruise ship being swallowed by the sea to sell the gravity of the situation. And that’s the key: whether the audience is fine with cutting away or not. If nobody watching wants to leave the A-plot for the B-plot, then the B-plot should be either abandoned or strengthened until it’s strong enough to stand on its own. Emotion and entertainment can’t be forced.

Civil War – The Essentials of Domestic Conflict, Part I

Captain America: Civil War represents Hollywood’s late-2010s obsession with pitting heroes against heroes, whether they’re robots or superheroes or bald men in love with cars and family. And what makes the domestic clash between Cap and Tony stand out is its personal nature…

Firstly, the source of the conflict is rooted in personal motivations. The wedge driving the Avengers apart is the Sokovia accords which would place them under government control to reduce collateral damage. And while the sides may seem one way on surface level, the truth is the opposite: Tony wants to sign because he as a former merchant of death feels personally responsible for the pain they’ve caused, whereas Cap doesn’t want to sign because he’s had a front row seat to governmental corruption. It’s all about the individual perspectives of individuals and where their beliefs lie in the matter. It’s a battle of convictions more than fists.

A clash between heroes matters most if it’s over something. Instead of Batman v Superman being about two guys disliking each other for separate impersonal reasons, there could’ve been a central disagreement with meaning to them both, like the topic of killing criminals. Batman would believe in killing due to his grim past, while Superman would oppose it due to regretting what he did to Zod. There’d be something to clash over rather than to simply clash.

Secondly, physical conflict is built on personal emotion. Once the heroes get to Hydra’s old base, the truth is revealed that Bucky killed Tony’s parents, and it’s a revelation so strong that it disbands all external motivators in favor of an internal one. Tony seeks to kill Bucky as revenge, whereas Cap seeks to save Bucky since it’s his best friend whose actions weren’t his own. There is no compromise or middle ground – that’s where the incredibly emotional power comes from. It’s not a fight between superheroes but a fight between people with superpowers. Much more impactful and difficult than joining forces to fight random Winter Soldiers.

Domestic conflict is strong enough to last only when driven by directly hostile emotion. The fight in BvS could’ve been ended by Superman sitting Batman down to say, “I don’t want to fight but Luthor has my mom, and her name is Martha btw.” Too weak to pass the Martha test.

Thirdly, the conflict’s escalation is built on personal unbalance and connection. Both Tony and Cap are in a bad place in life, as one has lost touch with Pepper and the other has lost Peggy. That bad place increases their tendency to act out of place, whether it means lashing out over what they’ve lost or protecting what they have left. And thus, the bond they share gets worse and worse in time: at first their disagreement is verbally indirect, then verbally direct, then physically indirect, and finally physically direct. It builds up to clash like no other.

For a bond to break, it needs to be there to be broken and believably so. Had Batman’s loss of Robin been recent and Superman’s mistake with Zod still fresh in his mind, they’d be messed up enough to not stop. And had they shared a bond as Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent like in the animated movie, there’d be a bond to deteriorate in an escalating manner until the break.

Godzilla v Kong – The Essentials of Domestic Conflict, Part II

Godzilla v Kong expands the versus genre into its biggest form yet, with a gorilla the size of a skyscraper going up against a lizard the size of a mountain. And much like Civil War, the result is very much positive in nature and has more useful lessons about the topic to teach…

Firstly, the initial encounters are built on home-field advantage to give both fighters a time to shine. When Godzilla first attacks Kong at sea, he basically kicks the poor gorilla’s ass thanks to water being more his element – all Kong can do is try not to die. But when they face off again in a city full of skyscrapers, Kong takes charge thanks to his great agility – all Godzilla can do is stand still and use one ranged attack until the playing field finally gets leveled, literally. The shifting scale of advantage lets each fighter demonstrate their skills and talents to their fullest, without devaluing the other, in a way that leads to a big finale on equal footing.

A divided hero side divides the audience as well. By allowing both sides to play on their own field where they’re at their strongest, all fans get what they came for in a way that they can accept the opposition’s strength as well. All that power will accumulate for a strong final clash.

Secondly, both motivational sides are pushed to the extreme, justifiably. Godzilla killing anything that moves does make him seem like a villain, until something turns out to be behind it: there’s a rising threat that’s got him seeing red. Same with Kong later on: when he loses his home, he sees just as much red as his opponent. And the result of tipping the heroes into the extreme is that they’re both willing to go far enough for their clash to be real yet understandably enough that neither becomes a villain. It’s a hero fighting a hero, with internal drives so strong that on both sides it feels like nothing less than a hero fighting his worst nemesis.

For domestic conflict to pack a punch, it should feel as real as any conflict but in an equal-enough manner to stay domestic. Fans on both sides want the clash to go as far as possible but without having to lose touch with the side they support.

Thirdly, the Martha test is put to the test to resolve the rivalry. When Godzilla and Kong face off in their final battle, one’s motivational drive must be completed for the conflict to be resolved in a non-copout way. Either Godzilla rids Kong of his alpha status to restore natural balance or Kong maintains his adamance to never bow down to anyone. And when Godzilla reigns supreme, that’s what it comes down to: Kong must either bow his alpha status away or die. Whether that’s what actually happens is up to interpretation, but the point is that the answer must be one or the other and nothing less in between. A match without a winner is a letdown.

A conflict between heroes is worth only as much as its conclusion. If there’s no conclusion like in Freddy v Jason, nothing’s resolved and it’s unsatisfying. If the conflict is too weak to last like in BvS, the resolution is lacking and it’s unsatisfying. One side’s objective must be completed, which is why it’s vital to construct the objectives in a way that one can truly be completed. Cap doesn’t have to kill Tony to “win” in Civil War – he wins by saving Bucky.

Dark Phoenix – How to Fumble Domestic Conflict

X-Men: Dark Phoenix may be the most frustrating of all versus movies because it starts out doing many crucial aspects right, only to abandon them at the end. It’s a testament to the great power of domestic conflict as well as to the great harm born from not staying faithful to it…

Firstly, domestic conflict makes scenes about more than their appearance. The brain battle between Xavier and Jean isn’t only constipated faces and CGI – it’s Jean trying to shatter his lie about her parents. The reunion of Jean and her dad isn’t only words – it’s him blaming her for her mom’s death. The suburban fight isn’t just punches – it’s a disagreement over how far to go to stop Jean. The cabin talk between Jean and Magneto isn’t only that – it’s a ticking time-bomb of him finding out that she killed someone he cares about. While there are no antagonistic forces to give scenes like these a larger purpose, hero intentions and motivations are crossed to create that purpose in their place. There’s meaning beyond what happens.

Even outside of versus films, it’s useful to build non-villain scenes on hero goals being mutually exclusive. Xavier buddying up with humans has no obstacle to solve, but the more he does it, the more he’s going against his own kind. That’s what makes it more than talk.

Secondly, domestic disagreements don’t have a clear answer, which gives them power. With Jean and Xavier’s suburban debate over whether she should let him help, both of them must get their way. She can’t trust him because he lied to her all her life and because he’s been putting mutant lives at risk to please humans, whereas he can’t let her go because her powers might cause more harm to others and the human-mutant relations. Same with team Magneto and team Xavier’s debate over whether to kill or help Jean: she’s a WMD growing out of control but also a girl from school who people know and have responsibilities over. It’s a dilemma with no obvious right answer. It’s an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force.

The strongest problems are those without an easy solution. Pressing a button is simple, but going on a journey to identify the right button to press before doing it is less so. When heroes collide, audiences get very emotionally involved with trying to find an answer.

Thirdly, the finale abandons all earlier methodology in favor of big CGI action. The aspect of scenes being more than the sum of their parts is gone: the heroes team up to physically fight some aliens who want Jean’s powers for some reason and that’s it. The aspect of dilemmas being difficult is gone: Jean’s anger is healed with a flashback-vision and team Magneto’s anger healed with words, after which it’s as simple as punching the blonde alien in the face. It’s like getting escorted from Dorsia into a McDonald’s in the middle of the meal.

One can only express so much in words, so check Dark Phoenix out yourself with an eye on this topic and the difference. The main lesson, I guess, is that if a movie is built on domestic conflict that gets jettisoned without a proper resolution, it’ll most likely turn into a trainwreck.

CHAPTER 12

GENRE: VIDEO GAME

Video game movies are much like superhero movies except the genre has yet to be mined for the gold hiding deep within. Despite multiple efforts, game characters still haven’t struck a chord with general audiences the way Tony Stark and Batman have. However, when that day comes and video game films do get cracked for the mainstream, it should begin the next gold rush that reshapes Hollywood’s power dynamics. Someone becomes the new Marvel, while someone else becomes the same old DC trying desperately to catch up. It’s just a matter of making the game movie equivalent of Spider-Man 2 or The Dark Knight to open the floodgates.

The downside, though, is very familiar: the gold won’t trickle down to most unknown writers without credits. While superheroes may step back at some point, the business mentality they’ve created of every film having to make a gazillion dollars probably won’t. Most video game adaptations will require IP and massive budgets, so they’ll be developed almost exclusively within studios. Again, it’s a question of what you can do to convince studios to hire you and who is the person doing the hiring at the time. James Gunn for example has been helming DC for months now and so far he’s only hired himself to write projects – from Superman to new TV shows – which doesn’t bode well for writers of lesser stature. Here’s hoping that some of those game-focused movie studios will have a Kevin Feige who hires based on spec material.

With all that said, the success scenarios for unknown writers are the same as with superheroes:

1) You get far enough in your career to be considered for VG projects at studios.

2) You write your own sample material within the genre to convince studios to hire you.

3) You find a cool new idea within the genre that can be produced for a cheaper price.

So, in this chapter, let’s drag the cursor over a pioneering group of video game movies to obtain some writing weapons to use in our arsenal of game movie scripts. My own advice would be to just write movies based on video games instead of writing “video game movies.”

Uncharted – The Curse of the Video Game Movie, Part I

Uncharted brings PlayStation’s Indiana Jones to life after a decade-long rollercoaster ride. The roulette wheel of directors spun past people behind projects like Bumblebee and 10 Cloverfield Lane, only to land on the guy who made Venom. Yet another example of why gambling’s a bad idea. Oh, and the result is very much a generic “video game movie” that’s mediocre at best…

Firstly, the value of characters and relationships relies on pre-existence. While Nate’s intro as a thieving bartender is adequate, his bond with Sully is not: the way it’s born is that Sully shows up to ask Nate to work with him, which leads to exposition about why and then to more exposition about how. Their adventure seems less like one between Nate and Sully and more like one between young Nate and Mark Wahlberg, as if the character names alone are enough to ensure value. Sure, the point is that they don’t yet have their bond from the games, but so little work is done to build a bond in the film that there doesn’t seem to be a proper bond at all.

Regardless of games, people and bonds carry value on screen only when they’re built on screen. Chloe Frazer’s intro should be more than her walking into frame to play tag or else she’ll be Chloe Frazer in name only. The reason Nate and Elena in the games have an instant relationship to invest in is because they overcome an event together in a way that forms one between them. Same thing with Finn and Poe escaping the First Order at the start of The Force Awakens.

Secondly, sequences are lesser copy-pastes. There are great set-pieces from jumping across rooftops to pulling off an auction heist to falling from a plane. But the issue is that they already exist as more expansive versions in the games – whether it means more emotional substance for the roof jumping, or more character work and challenge for the heist, or a bigger leadup and level of intensity for the plane fall. As much as the familiar sequences warm my fan heart, they also pose a tough question: How do you justify asking full ticket price to see something that has already been seen and can be seen in a much more expansive way on Youtube for free?

Instead of recycling the events of a game in a lesser way, identify the signature elements that make the game what it is and build events with them. Uncharted is at its best at the end when it constructs a new Uncharted set-piece. Find the balance between recreating and repurposing.

Thirdly, the source material isn’t taken seriously in terms of emotion. Not only are the challenges easy – be it pulling off a heist by simply putting on a jacket or getting onto an enemy plane by magically appearing on board – but there’s also very little consequences and negative emotion. Nate joins the treasure hunt on behalf of his brother without a proper connection being built between them and the treasure, and he gets betrayed by Chloe by simply getting whacked in the face so that he can forgive her the next time he sees her. It’s all lighthearted fun, with no scenes to make you think or feel or cry, as if that’s also the case in the games which it isn’t.

Games aren’t tonal flatlines of fun and neither should their adaptations be. The only way for video game movies to be taken seriously is for them to first take themselves seriously.

Mortal Kombat – The Curse of the Video Game Movie, Part II

Mortal Kombat is a 2021 adaptation of a type of game that’s among the toughest to adapt: an R-rated punch-fest of two gimmicky characters fighting. And while the result was enough to greenlight a sequel, it didn’t exactly cement the genre into popular culture. Thanks to more gaming missteps, it’s another “video game movie” meant to be watched and forgotten…

Firstly, gameplay is forced onto the screen no matter the illogicality. When the heroes get attacked by Sub-Zero, Jax decides to pause their car-getaway and go take the attacker on by himself, which leads to a game-like one-on-one brawl. It just doesn’t make much sense. Not only could Jax simply drive them away as per the plot, but he also has no way of winning seeing as his opponent is a supernatural warrior controlling an element of nature whereas he has a gun. And when Jax then takes a fat L, it’s like… yeah, what else was gonna happen? The fight is so lacking in logic and emotionality that it’s mostly just dumb.

Game mechanics can make for cool scenes but only when they’re organic both narratively and emotionally. If Sonya and Kano simply agree to fight in the desert instead of it being driven by impulse, it feels empty. But if Scorpion goes on a rampage to avenge his dead family like he does at the start, it has a compelling reason. Find that reason to justify the gameplay on screen.

Secondly, lore is crammed in at the cost of story and characters. The main hero, Cole, isn’t a hero but more so an empty shell to be pushed and filled up with the game’s elements. The gist of his entire journey is that he becomes more involved in the plot because of his ties to the lore, after which he gets saved by a new game character who gives him crazy exposition that he accepts at face value. Rinse and repeat. It’s as if the quantity of game elements is more vital than what to do with them. The world’s backstory is revealed with text and words, the life-changing truth of Cole’s lineage is revealed as an off-handed mention, and characters forget their friends after five minutes because they’re already onto the next big thing from the game.

Instead of building a movie on game lore, explore the lore in meaningful bits throughout the movie. The otherworldly elements could be exciting if they were discovered rather than told for free. A hero who leaves his family because a guy he just met tells him to – so that he can train for a tournament he’s never seen – is no hero but a slave to the material.

Thirdly, game references go against the purpose of scenes and events with many harmful results. They sacrifice basic believability, like when Jax gets his hi-tech cybernetic arms in an ancient monastery void of technology. They ruin established precedent, like when Kano gets mocked with a slow foot-swipe move in training in spite of his aggressive nature as a fighter. They sacrifice tension and stakes, like when the third act redemption battles become a montage of signature moves. Game finishers are cool, but a proper film third act would be more so.

The movie always comes first, and all references should support it. That’s it. A scene can have stuff from the games but its existence can’t be dependent on it having stuff from the games.

Assassin’s Creed – The Curse of the Video Game Movie, Part III

Assassin’s Creed had the best chance to lift video game adaptations into the mainstream due to its incredibly cinematic nature. How can you possibly drop the ball with a film concept about reliving the memories of an assassin ancestor? Well, by literally treating it like a video game…

Firstly, game rules are applied as-is despite not translating over. The idea of the hero, Cal, using a machine to relive his ancestor’s memories may work at face value in a game since the player is in control like in any other game. But it’s different in a movie where the practical side of reliving memories isn’t clear by itself. Is Cal in control? Does he have to do something to pass each past event? Can he fail, and if so, how? Is there danger in it for him in terms of his own actions? The whole concept is such a question mark that it reduces the memory sequences into a collection of non-contextual, mildly cool action. Sure, the ancestor makes amazing jumps that the machine amazingly recreates but what does it all actually mean in practice?

Just like you can’t play video on an MP3-player, you can’t apply game logic to movies – the logic must be converted into movie form and established in the movie. If it was made clear that the machine makes Cal become his ancestor with all his skills and knowledge, and that he has to complete the memory events himself or they restart, I could’ve understood enough to care.

Secondly, narrative elements don’t unite into a focused experience. The story divides into two lines like in the games: the present with Cal and the past with his ancestor. And while games can get away with being less focused thanks to their thirty-hour runtimes, a two-hour movie cannot. Cal’s bonds with others like the fellow prisoner-descendants are worth nothing because the people in the past are whole other people. Supportive characters like Sofia feel two-dimensional at best because their development ceases during the past sequences. Whereas had things been united – had the bad guy guard in the present been involved in the past by being a descendant of the bad guy warrior – all bonds and characters would’ve grown as one. The conflicts of the past would’ve fueled the conflicts of the present and the other way around.

Movies have much less freedom to amble, so combine all elements into a focused narrative.

Thirdly, the hero is a vessel designed to be influenced rather than a person who influences. When Cal wakes up in the facility, barely anything is known about him or his adult life, and his existence comes down to doing as instructed. He’s made to relive memories without any endgame-motivations of his own, he has no purpose or existence beyond the facility’s walls, he apparently killed someone but without any real context. He’s not a hero as much as he’s an empty shell for the audience to project themselves into to navigate the shifting world around them like in games. And movies don’t work like that. It’s not about going on a journey as the hero – it’s about caring enough about the hero to care about the journey they go on.

It’s the same mantra as always before: passive film heroes without a defining purpose are tough to make work and usually don’t work. The hero should be the player rather than the played.

Sonic – Breaking the Video Game Movie Curse, Part I

Sonic the Hedgehog brings an unlikely fix to the game movie genre by adapting a game where… a hedgehog runs fast to collect rings? That’s what left adaptations like Warcraft and Assassin’s Creed and Tomb Raider in the dust? What? Although, it might actually be the Sonic games’ inherent cinematic incompatibility that makes the movie work like a movie…

Firstly, characters and elements are built instead of relied upon. Many game elements are featured but never as face-value easter eggs – their worth is constructed in the film. Sonic is established to be a young humanoid hedgehog from another dimension whose great speed is also his greatest inner flaw: he has to be alone because his speed makes him a target and a danger to those around him. The rings he collects are portals he uses to travel across dimensions to stay hidden as per the plot. The villain, Robotnik, was made to feel inferior as a kid, which gave him an obsession to be superior to everyone else, now including Sonic. Characters are people and elements are pieces of the narrative, and their value is made clear to all audiences.

Game aspects have worth in a movie only when the worth is built up in the movie. Even the references here serve a larger point – whether it’s Sonic’s ball-form being part of the plot, or his red shoes being given to him by a girl as a sign that she doesn’t care that he’s an alien.

Secondly, game content is converted into film form and abided by. Most things from the games should not make sense in a live-action world because they don’t belong in it, be it Sonic himself or his inconsistent speed or the rings he collects for points or the absurd mustache-man chasing him with UFOs. Yet, it’s all made to make sense by grounding its logic. Sonic is a multi-dimensional alien that people get freaked out by – okay. His speed is based on him being insanely fast while perceiving the world as slow – okay. The rings are portals across different dimensions – okay. The mustache-man is an inventor played by Jim Carrey with an army of drones – okay. Things are put into a comprehensible perspective that gels with the world.

It doesn’t matter how fast Sonic is exactly – only that his speed’s mechanics are clear and consistent. Game content works in film only when it’s grounded in film-compatible context.

Thirdly, signature game elements are used to build an experience that’s new and worthy. Sonic’s inner journey of growth to stop hiding his power is not only investable but it also hasn’t been gone through in the games. The narrative and its basis of being a buddy-road-trip comedy is not only fun but there’s also nothing like it in the games. The central thematic battle between isolation represented by Robotnik and friendship represented by Sonic is not only cinematically powerful, but it’s also unlike anything seen in the games. The movie is very much a Sonic adventure but done in a way that’s fresh and one of a kind.

Every video game movie should be two things: a movie and an experience that can’t be had elsewhere. That’s how you entertain all audiences and justify the price of admission.

Sonic 2 – Breaking the Video Game Movie Curse, Part II

Sonic the Hedgehog 2 expands on the first film’s world with more characters and elements from the games yet manages to keep it as a tight cinematic experience. And once again, a lot of it is due to the film making use of the specialty of the games in the context of the film…

Firstly, the specialty of characters and relationships is born through introductory events. Sonic’s first scene of stopping a heist clearly showcases what makes him who he is: his speedy abilities and lively personality and emotional core of wanting to help. Knuckles’ first full scene of attacking Sonic’s home does the same with him: his physicality and rocky demeanor and power dynamics with Sonic. Tails’ first full scene of showing up as a haphazard rescuer does the same with him: his tech talent and awkward admiration of Sonic. Right away, the uniqueness of characters is clear, and the foundation of their bonds is laid down to grow with the plot. The more Sonic and Tails overcome obstacles together, the more valuable and tangible their bond becomes. And it’s all in the movie.

Iconic game characters and their bonds require events to sell what it is that makes them iconic. If it’s not there in the film, it’s not there.

Secondly, sequences are built with the specialty of the game sequences. The snowboarding scene has many cool Sonic elements, including high speed and an army of robots to fight and Knuckles to outrun and an avalanche to escape. It’s a scene consisting of many signature Sonic “things” that make the games what they are, while also not being a direct recreation of any specific game-snowboard level. Same with the final battle. There’s a giant Robotnik-transformer and a Tails plane and a super-Sonic and a power emerald sought by Knuckles, yet it’s all repurposed into a fresh form. Game sequences are borrowed from but only to construct something new that’s exclusive to the movie. It’s the specialty with novelty.

Don’t copy game sequences but do steal their signature elements to build new sequences with. If an Uncharted movie redoes game levels in a lesser way, what’s the point of the movie? If a Bioshock movie does things that any movie could do, what’s the point of it being Bioshock?

Thirdly, the game’s specialty is treated seriously enough to be emotionally resonant. While this is primarily a fun movie for kids, it’s not always fun, as Sonic’s journey is full of defeat and repercussions – his losses injure his friends and his lies put his family in danger. And most importantly, there’s negative emotion, like with Knuckle’s journey. Knuckles once belonged to a tribe that was wiped out in a war against Sonic’s protector tribe, which has left Knuckles alone and with only one purpose: to honor his family by finding the emerald they lost. Whereas for Sonic it’s the opposite: he must find the emerald to make his fallen protector proud. There’s more to the battle than the blue thing punching the red thing.

Movie adaptations of games should be as emotional as all other movies. And as with all other movies, there can be no true positive emotion without negative emotion to give it worth.

CHAPTER 13

HOLLYWOOD: ADAPTATION

The next section will cover more industry-specific areas of writing and filmmaking, starting with one of the most vital of them all: adaptation. While adapting material may not seem to concern newer writers, it is in fact vital to them as well because Hollywood revolves around it. It’s like every new project has to be based on something, be it a book or a game or a song or a Reddit thread or a poem mumbled by a random vagrant. Studios would much rather take their chances with IP that’s been proven to fail again and again – like the GI Joe movies – than rely on their own belief in the material. There always has to be something/someone to fall back on.

While it’s easy to attribute the current obsession with IP to greed, a lot of it also comes down to the reigning culture of high stakes and fear. If you’re an executive and the big movie you greenlit flops, you’ll always get hurt, but there are two different scenarios as to how much:

A) The flopped movie you greenlit is based on a popular book with value of a built-in fanbase. It didn’t work out, but you didn’t do anything wrong. You probably won’t get fired.

B) The flopped movie you greenlit is an original script with value based only on your own words on its behalf. It didn’t work out and it’s on you. You might very well get fired.

The above may be a simplification that disregards studio power dynamics, but the basic mentality applies. Most producers, financiers, and executives have superiors to answer to, which is why it’s easier for a script to get their attention when it has more going for it than just being a script. And that’s something for all newer writers to take advantage of – whether it’s by basing their script on something, or by stealing IP value for the script, or by publishing the script as a book before trying to sell it. That last part might not even make sense but not many things in this industry do. It’s like everybody likes to say William Goldman to have said: “Nobody knows anything.” That’s not exactly true since most people in power know a lot, but at the same time, many of them do listen to charts and thus the charts can be used against them.

So, in this chapter, let’s look into different types of adaptation and figure out how to do it in a way that works as well as what to avoid so that it doesn’t totally suck.

Free Guy – How to Steal IP Value for Free

Free Guy is a $100 million blockbuster about a computer-character living in a Grand Theft Auto world, and it’s based on… nothing. Some dude just wrote it. And he did it in such a big-brain manner that his little spec script spawned a franchise worth fortunes all on its own…

Firstly, the world is built upon a foundation of IP ideas. Most of all, this is a film version of GTA Online: it takes place in computer world of crime and missions and cars and players and NPCs. But what makes it more than a collection of illegal references is that it identifies the backbone of what GTA is and constructs its own thing on it. It explores the idea of what it’d be like to be an NPC in that game world as well as how that world came to be. It’s not just momentary easter eggs like lightsabers and Chris Evans showing up for one scene because a script like that would just get laughed at and tossed into the trash. What Free Guy is most of all is a body built around the non-trademarkable heart that gives life to Grand Theft Auto.

Don’t think of it as stealing but more so as taking someone else’s spine and growing your own muscle on it. You can’t make a movie about a criminal running from Batman, but what you can do is make a movie about a criminal running from a scary vigilante known as The Owl. The core mechanics make everyone understand and see it as Batman, except for the law.

Secondly, the story follows general beats of another story with proven success. The main plot here is basically The Lego Movie: the hero is a drone happy with his daily loop, until he meets a cool outsider girl who makes him see the loop’s problems, after which they save the world from the world above. It’s similar enough in terms of broad strokes for an executive to feel comfortable giving it money since it’s “like that other movie that made money.” Yet it’s also dissimilar enough in terms of details to have its own identity, be it the POV changes or the thematic journey favoring real life or the interactivity between the worlds. It’s a lot of benefits at the cost of only the fact that the story has to be of specific kind.

The success of a story paves the way to success for other stories like it. That’s why there’s a thousand slasher movie villains that all follow the same overall path of killing people around the hero until it’s the hero’s turn. It’s only a matter of finding a fresh angle for the right story.

Thirdly, the writers wrote what they know. While there is a ton of different stuff in Free Guy, most of it works because it was made by people who understand it. The first writer focused on the GTA elements because that’s what he knew, the second writer focused on the human story because that’s what he knew, Ryan Reynolds focused on comedic elements like The Dude because that’s what he knows. Whereas the influencers were added by the studio to milk their popularity in a way that made no sense. Guess which one of those didn’t work.

Steal only from the things you know and not from the new hot thing you don’t. Writing a GTA film is futile if you don’t understand GTA enough to understand what makes it GTA.

Ninja Turtles – How to Waste IP

Ninja Turtles is Paramount’s shot at building another Transformers-like mega franchise, only with not-so-great results seeing as the whole thing died soon after. And a lot of it is due to the IP elements being handled in a way that ruins the inherent value they offer…

Firstly, the IP value isn’t created in practice. The existence of the turtles and the Foot Clan is established in a voice-over-exposition beginning, while April O’Neil’s personality as a hard-nosed investigative reporter is established with her bothering someone for a late statement. The first impressions of the central elements make them seem so meaninglessly boring that that’s exactly how the audience is trained to view them. Clearly the Foot Clan isn’t such a big deal when the first thing they do is get their asses kicked and run away with no clear result.

The only worth that any IP elements have is that which is sold on screen, with first impressions being the most vital. Had the movie opened with April following leads to a Foot Clan robbery-in-progress to snap proof of their existence, with the turtles then showing up to produce a big clash, it could’ve come across as interesting enough to mean something.

Secondly, the IP value isn’t made use of in scenes, which leaves the scenes barebones. The scene of April finding the Foot Clan at the port is exactly that: she shows up and then they leave. There’s no obstacle for her to overcome, or resistance for the turtles to beat, or even a point because the city already knows about the Clan and thus there’s no need for April to get proof of their existence. Same with Shredder’s first scene: he beats up one of his useless henchmen and that’s it. Same with April’s capture scene: she goes to meet the turtles as per the invitation and is taken to their lair and that’s it. And what a letdown that is since there’s so much more to do with an investigative reporter being kidnapped by giant talking turtles.

Scenes are special only when fueled by the special worth of the IP. A finale of CGI characters fighting on a roof to stop poison from spreading into New York City is so generic that it was done by a Spider-Man movie two years prior. A Turtles movie should consist of events that can happen only in a Turtles movie or else there’s no need for it to be a Turtles movie.

Thirdly, the IP value isn’t treated with dignity and thus is turned dumb. April is presented as a determined reporter, yet she’s just an oversexualized idiot who conveniently ends up in the wrong places at the wrong times. The theme is presented to be about brotherhood and Raph learning its worth, yet from the start he does what he’s told by Leo in a way that makes the journey superficial. The villain motives are just idiotic, with a rich businessman wanting to become rich and a powerful samurai wanting to become powerful. Whereas the turtles’ origin, on the other hand, is presented in a super realistic Dark Knight context which makes no sense.

Be smart about how you allocate time between different IP elements – some should be developed more seriously than others. Choose wrong and you’ll crash at the starting line.

Ninja Turtles 2 – How to Utilize IP

Ninja Turtles: Out of the Shadows is like an opposite-day version of its predecessor. Not because there’s no more dumb stuff in it – there is! – but because it uses what it has at its disposal. While it was too late to save the turtles, at least they got to show what they can do…

Firstly, the IP’s essence is proven with defining first impressions. The turtles’ intro has them parkour across NYC to go see a Knicks game in the shadows, which establishes their essence in practice: they love the city but can’t be part of it due to what they are. April’s intro has her follow up on leads about Shredder’s new partner, which highlights her determined reporter skills: she finds out about Shredder’s plan and initiates the plot by telling the turtles. The Foot Clan’s intro has them show up to kick police ass with crazy tactics, while Casey Jones’ alter ego intro has him show up to protect April from a Clan attack. The practical work isn’t always the best but the mentality of selling the material with what defines it is there.

First impressions are where the viewer decides whether the IP elements have worth or not, so make it count. If Krang shows up simply to give exposition, he’ll be forgotten the moment he leaves since any character can give exposition and thus, clearly, Krang isn’t too special.

Secondly, the IP sources the contents of scenes and story. The plot revolves around a mutation ooze that the turtles can use to turn themselves human to finally fit in, which is general enough to be relatable but specific enough to not exist in every other film. And in that vein, most events and obstacles are also born from the material. The Foot Clan acts like a skilled clan of ninjas, the turtles drive a truck firing manhole covers, Casey Jones skates around shooting pucks, Bebop and Rocksteady drive motorbikes. Things do get goofy but the point is that only a Turtles movie can do them. Where else will you find a sequence where the heroes jump from a plane to another to fight a tank inside it and then crash into a river with the tank?

Building a movie’s contents on what the IP can do is how you justify the price of admission. It doesn’t always have to be crazy action – it can be as simple as conversation topics or emotional beats or solutions to obstacles or even comedy. But it has to be something, because the only reason for a Turtles movie to exist is when it’s a Turtles movie.

Thirdly, the IP is treated with tonal sense. While there is a lot of dumb stuff present – be it the unbelievable action or the nonsensical plot – it’s consistent. Yes, an adult man uses hockey gear to fight animals riding motorbikes… but it’s animals on motorbikes, the hockey gear isn’t too odd in the context. Yes, the turtles survive a collision with a plane… but they’re giant turtles, ordinary injuries don’t really apply. Yes, the purple alien attacks the Earth with no motivation… but it’s a purple gum-looking alien that speaks English, it kind of is what it is. Things are nonsensical in the same manner, which builds a tone in which it all makes sense.

No matter how crazy the IP, it can be used so long as it’s built on a world that reflects it. But if you try to ground irrationality in a rationally grounded world, you’ll get only stupidity.

Mulan – When an Adaptation Lacks Purpose

Mulan remakes the empowerment tale of a young Chinese woman with a fighting spirit for the 21st century audience. And unfortunately, it’s pointless, to a point where the few audiences that bothered to see it forgot it immediately after. It’s a remake with nothing to remember it for…

Firstly, the thematic journey is two-dimensional by current standards. The core theme is about Mulan learning to reveal her inner self to unlock her full potential, as she wants to be a warrior instead of an obedient wife. And when the ultimate lesson is that she should chase her dreams as all women should, it’s like no s#%. Of course women should and can choose what they are, at this stage that’s pretty obvious. Not to mention that the opposite side of it isn’t taken seriously enough to come off as such: there’s no specific reason proposed for why women aren’t allowed to take up arms – they just aren’t. The thematic journey is the equivalent of pushing a boulder down a hill only to push it back up again.

For an old story to work in modern day, its thematic gist has to be updated. Instead of simply saying that women warriors will be executed – which no viewer will believe – establish why it’s so. Maybe the Emperor was betrayed by his female warriors, which made him outlaw them, and Mulan’s journey is about repealing that law by making the Emperor see her as she is.

Secondly, topics aren’t explored further to reflect today. Mulan is a woman in a woman’s body hiding among men, yet the physical difference is never done anything with. Execution is presented to be law, yet there’s never an execution or anything close to it. Mulan gets found out as a woman, yet people are pretty fine with it because nobody actually has hate-issues with women that would get explored. Everything is taken only as far as in the original film two decades prior, despite the topics having developed into much deeper intricacies in real life.

Things that were enough twenty years ago aren’t necessarily enough when done today. The challenges of gender identity and being a woman in a man’s world mean something very different in 2020 than in 1998, so adjust the adaptation accordingly.

Thirdly, the movie is the same as the original with barely any added value. While there are some new characters, most beats and events play out as before. Mulan fumbles her meet with the matchmaker, steals her dad’s amor at night, fits in effortlessly at the training camp, fights the Huns with a deus-ex machina snowfall, and rescues the good-guy Emperor to save the day. The viewer knows exactly what’s coming and how, which, for example, is why there’s no need to fear for Mulan’s identity being exposed – we know it doesn’t happen until later! The biggest difference is in the stuff cut out, be it the songs or the animals or the visual flair. There’s so little added worth that the viewer may as well save their money and watch the original.

For a retelling to earn its existence, it has to find its own footing and fresh ways to tell the story. What if Mulan’s initial plan to join up doesn’t work? What if the Emperor isn’t a good guy? What if you spent your 200 million dollars on something that doesn’t already exist as is?

Crimes of Grindelwald – Stumbling from Book to Screen, Part I

Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald has one key difference with the Harry Potter movies, which is that it’s written by an author instead of a screenwriter. There was no book to adapt, so JK Rowling just wrote the script herself. And, clearly, she did so as with any other book, seeing as she doesn’t seem to value the most fundamental aspect of cinema: time…

Firstly, perspective isn’t anchored and thus results in a mess. The story consists of multiple character-tied plotlines: Newt’s investigation, Grindelwald’s rise to power, Credence’s path of discovery, Goldstein’s detective work, Queenie and Kowalski’s love story, and more. There are so many characters hogging up individual screentime that the time they each get is tiny enough to leave them and their journeys shallow. Zoe Kravitz’s central family-plot is so brief that it’s forgotten right away, whereas a random prison guard falling at the start becomes the POV-character for 30 long seconds for some reason. It’s an excess of empty faces and names.

Movies don’t have time to follow many perspectives like books, which is why the perspectives must be chosen wisely. The Rings films have an excess of characters yet the POVs are anchored in a few main people, not to mention that initially it’s just Frodo. Newt on the other hand has so little to do with so much of the story that he can barely even be seen as the hero.

Secondly, inputs and events don’t lead to results, which leaves things meandering. There’s a long list of setups that never receive a payoff – be it the guard surviving the fall at the start only to never return, or Newt taming a water monster that never plays a part later on. Time is spent in ways that serve no larger purpose in terms of plot or character, which may be acceptable in books since they don’t suffer from page-limits and budgets but not in movies which are meant to be laser-focused experiences. Everything has to lead to something and every scene must enable another – audiences expect nothing less. If Dumbledore serves less of a purpose than the Roomba in Breaking Bad, maybe he shouldn’t be featured at all?

The scene of Newt taming the water monster should either set up the monster to return later or establish something new about Newt as a person to be used later. To spend two minutes on a hero doing something he’s already known to do, with something that doesn’t advance the plot, is two minutes wasted. And that’s already 2% out of the usual 110-minute experience!

Thirdly, the storytelling is audible instead of visual and thus lacks power. Newt’s relationship with his brother is said to be rocky, yet all that’s shown is the brother going out of his way to help and hug him. Credence is said to be a superpowered wizard who can kill Dumbledore, yet he’s shown to be too weak to even kill a random guy. Dumbledore and Grindelwald apparently share an intimate bond, yet only because Rowling said so on Twitter. Showing would require more time, but of course since at this point there’s none left, it means having to rely on words.

Books are words and movies are visuals. Subtext is great but it must come alive through characters and emotion nonetheless. If it’s not on screen, it’s not in the film and it’s not real.

Secrets of Dumbledore – Stumbling from Book to Screen, Part II

Fantastic Beasts: The Secrets of Dumbledore suffers from the same issue of not valuing time as its predecessor, thanks to JK Rowling retaining her seat at the typewriter. The studio did eventually bring in a pro screenwriter to fix scenes and the finale as much as possible, but a couple more core differences between writing for the screen and for the page still remain...

Firstly, characters and their bonds are introduced as groups, which ruins individual worth. Once the heroes board the train, Newt explains his ties to everybody as if he’s the script: his human friend, his pen-pal from the ministry, his trustworthy assistant, his officer brother, and a friend of a friend. Some characters like Kowalski and Dumbledore carry enough pre-established value to stand on their own, but most have so little substance to latch onto that it’s tough to take interest or care. While the ministry woman’s personality is conveyed through great acting and scene-writing, anything beyond that is a mystery. While Grindelwald’s right-hand warrior is presented to be an ominous individual threat in many scenes, it doesn’t work because she’s only committed actions as part of a group. Individuality requires individuality.

Introducing many characters at once might work in a book since it’s possible to stop time and dive into everyone’s backgrounds. But in movies, characters generate value through their own actions and choices, like how Inception introduces all team-members through their own connections and areas of talent. It does require more time and work but that’s what movies are.

Secondly, character actions don’t progress the plot and thus leave it dull and pointless. The second act revolves around following Dumbledore’s plan to stop Grindelwald, and it’s missing both basic sides of plot. One missing side is the objective: when Newt heads to talk to a wizard politician, it’s not clear why he’s doing it or what he’s accomplishing by doing it. The other missing side is the lack of progress: all Newt’s talking does is get his brother in trouble from which he has to be rescued, after which it’s back to square one. The second act ends almost exactly where it began, to such an extent that the heroes could’ve just sat around waiting for the third act and headed out then. It’s as if the only reason the second act occurs is so that the script can establish new characters and elements required for the finale.

Detours can be fine in books because readers are often patient enough to accept them. But with modern film audiences, they need to be made aware of what’s being done and to what end or they’ll be lost to their phones. Cinematic detours usually amount to a cinematic waste of time.

Thirdly, the finale handles the topic much better, so check it out. Characters perform individual actions and choices to establish themselves as individuals, and the whole point is to buy Newt a chance to get up to the election stage to out Grindelwald as a fraud. It feels like a movie rather than a book playing on screen, probably due to being written by a pro screenwriter.

Repeat after me: “Screenplays must make the most out of time because there’s not a lot of it.”

CHAPTER 14

HOLLYWOOD: BLOCKBUSTER

Blockbusters are Hollywood’s greatest strength and weakness. Yes, they appeal to all audiences to make a lot of money and can thus have massive budgets – but also yes, they have massive budgets and must thus appeal to all audiences to make a lot of money. It’s the issue of the lowest common denominator: what’s for everyone is truly for no one. Wonder why so many blockbusters open with some verbal or text exposition explaining everything about the world? Because a writer wrote it in the script? Not outside of Star Wars, no. It’s because studios think the average viewer is dumb and needs to be led by the hand, and sadly, in many cases not without reason. I guess it’s like the Midas touch. Everything and everyone you touch turns to gold, but at the same time, everything and everyone you touch must turn to gold.

Newer writers don’t need to worry about this topic for a long time, but if you ever do get lucky (or unlucky) enough to get so far, there are three core types of blockbusters you’ll work on:

A) The Nolans: films which are the product of the filmmaker’s vision.

B) The Kinbergs: films which are heavily influenced by studio involvement.

C) The Marvels: films which are products designed to fulfill studio guidelines.

It may be cool to hate one type and love another, but the truth is that all of them have good sides and bad sides. For every Inception there’s a Tenet, for every Fant4stic Four there’s a Rogue One, and for every Thor: The Dark World there’s an Infinity War. Sometimes it’d be good to have the studio tell you no, like with the Lucas prequels or with Vice where they spent money on a musical number that was never going to make it in. Whereas sometimes it’d be good for the studio to back the F off, like with most cinematic disasters you’ve heard of.

So, in this chapter, let’s dig into both sides and into various central aspects around writing big movies for big audiences. Depending on the result you’re going for, there are many usual-suspect things to avoid and follow, but mostly to avoid…

GI Joe: Snake Eyes – How to Make a Dumb Movie for Kids, Part I

GI Joe: Snake Eyes takes a fan-favorite masked warrior who never speaks and turns him into a maskless guy who speaks. What could go wrong? The biggest issue, though, is that all its big blockbuster elements exist in such an immature form that only little kids can take it seriously…

Firstly, events and turns lack practical justification. Snake Eyes’ name comes from his dad losing a deadly dice-game to a hitman, and the game feels more like an empty gimmick than a personality-bound Harvey Dent coin flip that would change anything. Snake’s friend at the Yakuza warehouse turns out to be a prince of a powerful Japanese clan, which is weird since why would the only successor to an ancient dynasty be out on undercover missions alone? Snake’s villain-bosses deliver his dad’s killer to him, which makes no sense since why would the villains let him talk alone with the guy who can expose them as the ones responsible? Huh?

Even the grandest things carry power only if they can withstand logical and contextual pressure. What’s the big deal with the magical MacGuffin-weapon if it could be replaced by an ordinary gun? Why is Snake allowed to come and go from the clan’s premises freely and why are there cameras only when it fits the plot? Non-child viewers will see through all that as fake.

Secondly, the plot isn’t pushed by established character motives. Snake initially just goes with the flow. He’s hired by a Yakuza-boss in exchange for info on his dad’s killer without evidence, he works as a Yakuza fishman until he saves a coworker who he has no proper bond with, and he follows the coworker to his clan’s home and accepts an invitation to join because why not. It all eventually turns out to be part of Snake’s plan, but it doesn’t matter because the audience doesn’t know about his plan or motivation in the entire first act. And it doesn’t get much better in the next act of completing challenges to join the clan either, seeing as the challenges don’t get him any closer to the MacGuffin he needs or to his dad’s killer.

Motivations can drive things only when they’re present. The clan challenges could matter if completing them was established to grant Snake access to the MacGuffin – he’d be advancing his journey by completing the challenges instead of the challenges being a cool but pointless pastime. Non-child viewers can tell the difference between running and running in place.

Thirdly, conflict and situations exist on a one-dimensional level. The Yakuza sequence is built on the tension of Snake being caught as a traitor, except there’s no basis for it since he’s done nothing traitorous. The Japanese clan sequences are built on the stakes of Snake being found out and punished, except there are never any punishments or consequences taking place. Simply put, the dynamics are born from what the movie in the moment says them to be.

Information should function beyond where it applies. If it wasn’t revealed that Snake was hired by the Yakuza-boss until after the Yakuza sequence, there’d be a reason to fear for his life as a possible impostor looking for his dad’s killer. Non-child viewers need a basis for belief.

Let There Be Carnage – How to Make a Dumb Movie for Kids, Part II

Venom: Let There Be Carnage abandons the tiny seeds of darkness of its predecessor and goes all in on silly buffoonery, which is a choice that leaves it very juvenile-oriented. And while there clearly is financial success to be found it that, it also comes with aspects to be aware of…

Firstly, actions occur without a larger reason and thus without purpose. Eddie solves Kasady’s murder to become a top reporter once more, yet it changes nothing – his life is exactly the same “at the top” as it was “at the bottom.” Venom leaves Eddie due to not being allowed to eat people, yet he does nothing on his own – he just parties without eating anyone. Kasady’s goal is to rescue his love from prison, yet he does it right away and is then left without a proper destination – he and Carnage go after Eddie/Venom because they may as well. What happens seems to happen simply for the sake of happening, with nothing tangible there on the other end.

Things should always unfold for something. Had Eddie tried to turn his career and life around to earn a second chance with Anne, there’d been a point. Had Venom went off on his own to eat people and realize that it’s not such a great idea, there’d been a point. Had Kasady’s whole journey been about going through Eddie to locate and rescue his love, there’d been a point. Kids may lack the ability to think further than they see but adults don’t.

Secondly, things are told instead of shown and thus lack foundation to feel real. Eddie’s ups and downs as a reporter become clear not through change in his life but because they’re given play-by-play commentary by random news anchors. Kasady’s ominous serial-killer stature becomes clear not due to his actions or strength in power-dynamics, but because he’s spoken of as such and because he sends Eddie a letter explaining his own dark past. The love between Kasady and Shriek becomes clear not due to their interactions, but because they scream that they love each other when they get separated as kids. It’s words after words after words.

It bears repeating: things exist only when they’re on screen. If Anne reveals that she’s getting married by showing Eddie her ring at dinner, it’s not showing. What would be showing is if Eddie turns his life around solely to impress Anne and shows up to dinner to meet her, only to be destroyed by the sight of her ring and husband. Kids may believe anything but adults don’t.

Thirdly, the world is on the nose and thus dumb. Characters are as they seem: Anne is a kind love-interest without shades or flaws, Shriek looks like an evil witch and acts accordingly, and Kasady is a crazy serial-killer with no insight into who he killed or why. Same with the narrative: Kasady gets a drop of Venom’s goo and somehow turns into a stronger symbiote, Eddie finds clues about Kasady’s intentions written on the first tree he runs into, and the thematic truth is recited in battle out loud as if influenced by Peppa Pig. Things are as they are.

Reality has more to it than the shell. Instead of Kasady magically becoming Carnage with a drop of Venom’s goo, it’d be more believable if the goo fuses with the prison’s lethal injection to be transformed. Kids will eat what they’re fed but adults require layers of taste to enjoy.

Wonder Woman 1984 – How to Make a Dumb Movie for Yourself

Wonder Woman 1984 fulfills writer-director Patty Jenkins’ wish to do whatever she wants, as the film’s main purpose is to be a fun 80s playground for her to use as she pleases to revisit her favorite time. That can often happen when a director comes off a big hit, and it’s dangerous…

Firstly, sequences serve no other intention than to be cool sequences. The Olympic games opening is ten minutes of running and jumping for the sake of it, without real tension or conflict or stakes or further meaning beyond a small mention of lying being bad. The mall sequence is another seven minutes of 80s culture and some sparring, without a proper sense of challenge or effort. And for many scenes and sequences that follow it’s the same – Diana mostly spends time hanging out in the 80s by herself and with others as the plot slowly starts picking up around her. It’s like the first World War I movie but if there was no World War I to go fight.

Every scene and sequence should be about overcoming obstacles to unlock the next step, or at least about introducing central elements like the Amazon culture at the start of the first film. Things can be fun but when everything is for fun it gets dull fast. If it’s just as easy for Diana to steal a plane at the midpoint as it was to stop a robbery at the start, what are we doing?

Secondly, character cores are lost to lighthearted inconsistency. The villain, Barbara, is a loner envying Diana’s popularity, which is a great basis for a rivalry except that it has no basis. Diana never gets attention when Barbara doesn’t, nor is there any moment where Barbara gets turned down by a man due to Diana. In fact, Diana goes against her own recluse nature to become Barbara’s pal since of course she can’t be shown in any less-than-good light. And once Barbara makes a magic wish to be like Diana, all that happens is that people suddenly think she’s hot because she wears tight dresses and no glasses. And then even their rivalry becomes about another person instead of personal conflict. It’s one reductive contradiction after another.

It’s better for tone to abide by characters rather than for characters to go against their core drives to fit the tone. Diana’s flaw of being a recluse who pushes others away won’t last if she lets Barbara close right away. As unfun as it may be, people are more than their positive surface.

Thirdly, the experience is muddled and broken by inorganic coolness. When Diana turns the plane invisible to allow her and Steve to escape into the sky filled with July 4th fireworks, both the invisibility-skill and July 4th exist only in that one moment because it looks nice. When the villain takes the plot to Egypt, there’s no specific reason for it other than because Egypt looks great. When Diana loses Steve and learns to fly, music from the movie Sunshine starts playing, to a point where attention slips away from the emotional beat and into the question of “why is music from Sunshine playing?” The additions reduce the value of the point.

It can be fun and useful to add cool things, but it should be done only when it supports what it’s added on top of. The surface is hardly ever worth the cost of the meaning within.

The Lone Ranger – The Boring Blockbuster, Part I

The Lone Ranger is like Pirates in the wild west, except for many viewers it can feel ten times as long. And not because it’s any longer than other blockbusters but simply because it feels like it’s running at a sluggish pace, in a manner that’s tough for general audiences to get into…

Firstly, the beginning is slow because it requires multiple restarts to begin the plot. The first opening sets up a future framing device to tell the story through. The second opening is a set-piece sequence of a train robbery with some great action. The third opening sees the hero tag along with his Ranger brother to catch the escaped villain, Cavendish, for no personally important reason. The fourth opening sees the hero lose his brother and be reborn, and that’s finally what the movie is: the hero, John, becoming a Ranger to catch Cavendish as justice for his brother, while Tonto the native joins the journey for his own reasons. The issue is that it takes fifty minutes to get there, which means that half the audience has already lost interest.

One prologue can be fine, but that aside, it’s best to begin the plot and the main point of the movie as early as possible so that the audience knows what they’re watching and why. The average viewer won’t have the patience to wait up to an hour for the actual ride to start.

Secondly, the narrative is so subtly multi-threaded that it can get convoluted. The railroad-man, Cole, spends time with the wife of the hero’s brother with no clear relationship, which is confusing to see since he’s an old man hanging around a stranger woman and her son. The full truth turns out to make sense, sure. Cole is related to Cavendish who kills the wife’s husband, and since Cole lost his pecker in the war and thus can’t create a family, he seeks to make the wife’s family his own. He is a three-dimensional villain, a man less than other men who feels a need to prove his superiority. But the issue is that a lot of that truth isn’t established until very late and/or in a quick throwaway line, which leaves many viewers clueless for a long time or forever if they don’t catch the truth. And for the less-attentive viewers who aren’t able see Cole three-dimensionally, he’s just another two-dimensional bad guy without a proper motive.

Complex is fine but convoluted is not. The audience can’t partake in a big conspiracy about silver and railroads if they don’t know it exists until the finale. While questions can generate interest, nothing but questions for a long period of time leads to confusion and frustration.

Thirdly, the material is so expansive that it contradicts and clutters its own identity. The comedy is at war with the emotional beats: one scene reveals Tonto’s tragic past to John, while the next scene jokes about John leaving Tonto for dead. The thematic side wrestles with two extremes: fantasy elements like flying horses and future-visions get introduced, only for the payoffs to focus entirely on modern elements like land-rights and currency, with no explanations for the fantasy. It’s as if there’s two different movies fighting for screentime.

General audiences can get on board only if they know what they’re onboarding. All sides of the material must support each other and have a clear beginning and end or there’s trouble.

John Carter – The Boring Blockbuster, Part II

John Carter doesn’t have the word Mars in its title like in the book because the executives thought it would make girls not want to see it. Little did they know that the movie would lose 200 million dollars all on its own by boring and fatiguing all girls and boys alike…

Firstly, the beginning restarts with new plots again and again. The first opening sets up the Martian war. The second opening follows Carter as he loses people chasing him to send a vital telegram. The third switches into the POV of Carter’s nephew who arrives to deal with his death. The fourth follows Carter in the past as he works as a prospector and ends up on Mars to begin the main journey. All of that happens within the first ten minutes: we go from a prologue on Mars to another prologue on Earth that bridges into another prologue in the near future which serves as the framing device to tell the story set in the past. So much is being done yet nothing is done. It’s like riding in a faulty supercar that keeps stopping and going so violently that it gives you whiplash and leaves you exhausted before the trip has even begun.

Big movies should begin and then begin the plot. That’s it. Not begin the plot fifty minutes in or begin multiple plots in ten minutes. Identify the core idea of what the film is and then set up its world and get to that core. Anything beyond that risks alienating casual viewers.

Secondly, the hero is too small to carry the immensity. Not to mince words, Carter is among the blankest leads out there. He’s passive which means he gets dragged from one plot beat to another, from chains and jails to alien chains and jails. He’s unmotivated which means he has no dog in the Martian war and doesn’t want to do anything about it, while also lacking a clear reason to get home thanks to the whiplash start. And he’s two-dimensional which means he ultimately acts to save the princess simply because she’s hot. All in all, Carter’s so uninteresting compared to the aliens and wars and monsters around him that he’s left invisible behind it all.

The bigger the movie, the bigger the hero required to push and anchor it. Carter does have an interesting hatred of armies and natives that he grows over on Mars, but as always, it’s way easier to make a strong hero out of John Carter than out of John Cartered-Around-By-Others.

Thirdly, the plot lacks basis to be taken as meaningful. The Martian war is presented as a big deal because the evil king of one nation wants to marry the princess of the other, yet it’s not clear why the king is “evil” or why him marrying her to stop the war is so terrible. Mars is presented to be dying due to its resources being mined yet that’s never shown in practice. The alien gods are presented to feast on dying planets yet in words only. Carter’s goal to get back home is presented as vital yet without a clear reason or a single scene of him agonizing over being stuck on Mars. There’s way too little for most audiences to grasp onto.

Casual viewers need meat around the bones to be able to make out the body. Not too subtle or non-existent or peppered with words – enough substance to be clear. Or their phones win.

Terminator Genisys – The Boring Blockbuster, Part III

Terminator Genisys aims to return the franchise to top form by mixing up familiar elements and bringing back Arnold. The result just isn’t too great because the engine suffers from the same starting problems as Ranger and Carter. Amnesiacs need not worry though, as there are a couple more boredom aspects in play as well to ensure a true snore-fest experience…

Firstly, the same scenes and sequences repeat as a cycle. Upon arriving in 1984, Kyle Reese is thrown into a new status-quo world and gets arrested by cops, and as he’s almost caught by a terminator, a hero familiar with the world, Sarah, saves him. That leads to a cool chase to flee the terminator, after which the heroes go to a safehouse unknown to Kyle where they have a fiery battle with the terminator and then spend a quiet moment to prepare for the plan ahead.

And upon Kyle and Sarah then arriving in 2017, what happens? The same! They’re thrown into a new status-quo world and get arrested by cops, and as they’re almost caught by a terminator, a hero familiar with the world, Arnold, saves them. That leads to Kyle and Sarah going to a safehouse unknown to them to spend a quiet moment to prepare for the plan ahead, after which they have a fiery battle with the terminator and then go on a cool chase to flee the terminator. After that, breaking into the third act, the heroes get arrested again – rinse and repeat. It’s the same few scene-prompts playing again and again in a slightly varying order.

No matter the coolness of the action or spectacle, if specific events cycle through more than once, it gets boring. Seeing the hero get arrested can be exciting but not so much by the third time. Most scene-prompts should be used only once, and when more is needed, the dynamics should be altered. Terminator 2 has two big chases: a race between terminators to catch John as he flees alone, and a car-chopper-firefight where John has protectors by his side. Both are born from the same prompt yet they’re different enough to not feel repetitive or stale.

Secondly, the goal-post gets swapped for another in a way that resets direction and momentum. John follows the T-800 into 1984 with the goal of saving Sarah from it, which turns out to be moot because Sarah has already dealt with it when he arrives. That leaves the section without an objective for Kyle to push toward and necessitates long explanations to establish the new status quo – it’s loud action with a passive hero being dragged along and filled with information. Then, at the fifty-minute mark, the next goal is activated. John and Sarah travel into 2017 to stop Skynet from being born, which of course leads to more long explanations to establish the new status quo as the heroes get dragged along. It’s as if a whole new movie has begun, with the heroes once more being passive shells pushed by the plot before they finally generate their own tangible objectives.

No matter how big a movie is, it should remain as one movie, and the way to ensure that is with one purpose-embodying goal-post to always move toward. Smaller checkpoint-goals are great, but the direction should never get lost or reset. One race means one ultimate finish line.

Midway – The Big Empty Movie

Midway is a big-budget retelling of World War II in the Pacific that packs some astonishing visuals and exciting events. The issue, however, is that underneath all the astonishing excitement, it can often feel barren. Like a huge church wedding without a bride…

Firstly, events lack a human factor to anchor them. When the ships at Pearl Harbor come under attack, the main intelligence-hero is not there – he’s at home. The characters on the ships are random crewmen and civilians with no proper buildup or role in the rest of the story. It’s lots of explosions and mayhem but without a human perspective to ground it in. Not to mention that since the main hero in the moment isn’t affected by the event enough to have anything to do in it, it doesn’t develop him much for later either. It’s as if the narrative splits into two: the event that occurs and the hero that exists outside of it. This isn’t always the case, but when it is, it results in scenes that carry much less impact than the ones experienced through the heroes.

Even with the most heartbreaking of real-life topics, the heartbreak is stronger when anchored in people as shown by movies like Dunkirk. The fighter plane sequences in Midway are the most compelling due to being built on some level of character work, whereas with the bomber squad scenes it’s the opposite. When the bombers take off from the carriers in bad weather without a single elated character reaction being shown, it feels empty. When the bomber squad ends up in China to witness Japanese war-crimes only to then disappear from the movie entirely, it feels as if the Chinese financiers bought that section of screentime. It’s character that makes the difference between events simply occurring and events being experienced.

Secondly, there’s no connective tissue to unite the abundance. As comes with war, there are many characters with their own cores and journeys. There’s the pilot-hero driven by a hatred of the Japs, the intelligence-hero adamant to prevent another setback, and a Japanese general wrestling with his plan. Not to mention all the other army-men embodying their ranks and statuses, like the dutiful commander and the tough naval admiral and the introvert codebreaker. And the issue with this massive, multi-path nature of the story is that there’s nothing to unite it as a whole – no thematic blanket for it to exist under. Mostly, it’s a collection of different people doing different things around the war, with the war itself being as specific as things get.

To prevent a big movie from getting too all over the place, it’s useful to tie it up under one all-encompassing thematic topic that affects everything and everyone in it. That topic could be about the lack of time like in Dunkirk. Or it could be about the value of unconventional intelligence like in The Imitation Game. Or it could be about blind hatred of the opponent, like if all main characters in Midway struggled with hate in their own ways until they grow to overcome it and see more clearly. Everyone would have their journeys and war-related parts to play but around something more specific that sets the movie apart from other war movies like it. So that it wouldn’t be just “a war movie about the Pacific.”

Mortal Engines – Excess as a Curse, Part I

Mortal Engines tries to recapture the grand nature of Lord of the Rings in a post-apocalyptic world where cities drive around like tanks. Accordingly, it is massive in size and features an abundance of characters and subplots and regions and parties. And it’s the film’s inability to compress that abundance into a compelling form that leads to its downfall…

Firstly, the world comes before characters. In the first ten minutes, the POV jumps from a mysterious warrior to a city commander to city drivers to museum workers to whoever else, and that’s all they are. Their purpose isn’t to introduce themselves but more so to offer quick glimpses into the various aspects of the world through the parts they play in it. All there is to distinguish the characters for is that one is played by Hugo Weaving and another works in a museum and another wears a cool scarf. No joke, an old toaster found in the trash is described with greater individual features and details than any of the humans in the first act.

The world matters only if the characters it’s explored through matter first. The Fellowship of the Ring begins with Frodo and his closest bonds, and it’s through him that Middle-earth and the journey begins to open up. Characters should be people rather than jumping pads.

Secondly, plots and subplots don’t support or tie into each other. The main narrative revolves around the villain using his big city to invade the East, and the many sub-threads around it have nothing to do with it. The villain’s daughter looking into his shady plans alters nothing and reveals nothing the viewer doesn’t already know. The villain sending a zombie after the hero in no way advances his invasion plan and happens just because the hero tried to kill him. The backstory between the hero and the zombie isn’t connected to the key events and ultimately only makes the zombie easier to beat. There’s so much stuff separate from the main course that the main course is left feeling small and surrounded by redundant fat.

The more content a movie has, the more it all has to work together to not turn into a muddled mess. Everything that happens in the Lord of the Rings trilogy exists for the same reason: to destroy Sauron and save Middle-earth. It’s one story rather than multiple.

Thirdly, the sides are convoluted to a point where all sense of purpose is lost. Initially, the division is clear: a predator city hunts smaller cities to absorb their freedom and resources. There’s a clear antagonist for the protagonist to struggle against. But going into the third act, the movie introduces a new Eastern region of no moving cities that the predator city along with the free cities it has absorbed attacks. It’s suddenly a fight between the antagonist-protagonist side and a third side that has no prior buildup or connection to the hero, which makes it very confusing as to who to support in the big external battle or why even care at all.

Conflict shouldn’t be black and white but it should be clear enough to work. In Fellowship, Mordor threatens all life including Frodo’s home and must be stopped. But had Frodo’s home been in Mordor and under no threat, the journey would’ve been much tougher to invest in.

The Amazing Spider-Man 2 – Excess as a Curse, Part II

The Amazing Spider-Man 2 gives Peter Parker a few obstacles too many to handle, which is why he was rebooted soon after. There are multiple plotlines and journeys and villains and movies worth of setup, all fighting for screentime. It’s abundance that becomes a hindrance…

Firstly, characters’ launches into journeys are randomly shallow. Max is a guy on the street who happens to be saved by Spider-Man during a heist in a way that makes him a fan… and he also happens to work at Oscorp… and in his first act of work at Oscorp he also happens to fall into a vat of eels to become Electro. His path of transformation is so fast and dependent on things around him that he feels like a construct of the plot without worth of his own. And why is that? Because time is needed to launch all the other journeys as well! Like with Harry arriving home to meet his dad who turns out to be dying of disease, which turns out to affect Harry now as well despite his youth, for which he turns out to need Spider-Man’s blood as a cure.

Journeys should be born from characters rather than from coincidental forces applied to characters. Had Max been involved in the opening heist as an Oscorp employee, being saved by Spider-Man would happen through who he is. Had Max done more work at Oscorp around the eels to set up their purpose, falling into them wouldn’t come so out of nowhere.

Secondly, plotlines carry so little active effect that their meaning fades. The film begins with Peter’s parents stealing Oscorp data and dying as they flee, and for the next eighty minutes the topic vanishes into the background, until Aunt May reveals to Peter that his parents may have been criminals. And when Peter then looks for the truth, it doesn’t change much since the topic of his parents being shady has barely been present so far – it hasn’t been an obstacle being used against him or part of his goals or a source of struggle. The thread is set up and made meaningful again eighty minutes later and then resolved in ten minutes. Not too much there.

Plotlines are at their best when they’re able to have a consistently active and significant effect. Peter and Gwen breaking up doesn’t matter too much if they seem to be getting back together right away. Why break them up at all if there’s no time for them to truly be broken up?

Thirdly, resolutions lack developed substance. The location of the ending battle is an electric plant Max created and Gwen worked on, yet both sides have been so non-existent that so are the results. Gwen’s “first-hand knowledge” amounts to her flipping a master switch which could be done by anyone, while Max has never been shown in relation to the place before. The location as a whole is so underdeveloped that the stakes need to be raised with two random planes on a collision course. And it could’ve been much more if only the place and its purpose and potential had been built up with more than short verbal mentions.

If plotlines aren’t developed to the full extent, their climaxes fall flat. Harry seems fine at the end without Peter’s blood, so what was the point? The Oscorp plutonium from the heist leads to nothing, so what was the point? What’s the point in doing many half-things to no full end?

Red Notice – The Consumable Movie, Part I

Red Notice unites The Rock and Ryan Reynolds and Gal Gadot in one big-budget Netflix heist romp. And that is its greatest weakness – it can’t rise above the sum of its own parts. It’s not an experience as much as it’s something generic to turn on in the background and forget…

Firstly, the tone is a flat line of fun without emotional value. No matter the inherently serious nature of an event, it always plays in a lighthearted manner. A police chase is a game of tag, a bullfight has no repercussions, a torture interrogation turns into people having a laugh, and a cop being stuck in prison lacks any hint of real threat. There’s never a sense that the obstacle ahead might not be overcome or that the heroes won’t survive physically or mentally or spiritually. Things just sort of playfully occur, to a point where even the motivations revolve around getting money for no reason and regaining a life that’s never been established.

As always, movies are meant to be emotional rollercoasters with ups and downs. Reynolds being betrayed by the one person he learned to trust and open up to should amount to more than him grinning and then becoming pals with his backstabber. The stakes should be more than a teenager getting the MacGuffin as a birthday gift. Nothing serious equals no one cares.

Secondly, the characters fall invisible behind the actors. All three leads mostly play themselves, with Reynolds joking in every situation and The Rock having a hard shell with a sweet inside and Gadot being tough simply on the basis of being Gadot. The characters become forgettable because their actions never exceed what their actors are expected to do, which every blockbuster writer must be wary of. If heroes are only what their actors have already been in earlier roles, and if their specialty and buildup is reliant on the actors’ names, they’ll be forgotten as soon as the credits roll.

A big movie requires big actors which requires big characters and big actions. Heroes must be able to stand above their actors’ personalities and previous work or they become vanilla.

Thirdly, the action sequences recycle action of past blockbusters in a lesser way. The scaffolding fight in the museum is Rush Hour 2 but indoors. The parkour chase through the construction site is Casino Royale but less dangerous. The gulag escape is Ghost Protocol and Fallout with less opposition and more CGI. The ending car-chase-fight is The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull except with less-pretty visuals. Most of what’s done has already been done to a bigger extent by other films, whereas the things that haven’t been done aren’t done anything with. The bullfight has potential to be a fresh Hollywood blockbuster sequence yet all it actually amounts to is jokes and three seconds of action and challenge. What a waste.

Drawing from past action is fine but only if the intensity knob is pushed. The scaffolding fight in Shang-Shi does draw from Rush Hour 2, yes, but it also mixes up dynamics and increases the danger. A budget of $200 million must at least amount to something that deserves to exist.

Solo – The Consumable Movie, Part II

Solo is a studio movie through and through due to its chance-taking directors being swapped out in the middle of production. That swap does result in a perfectly adequate product, yes, but a product nonetheless. The film is of such vanilla flavor on the character side especially that it gets seen maybe once and then forgotten forever, if it’s seen at all...

Firstly, the hero’s character arc is partial in size. Han Solo in the beginning is a good-natured optimist and by the end he’s… mostly the same. Where’s the cynical rogue from A New Hope, you ask? Well, the answer is two more movies away. And it’s because his arc was decided to be spread out through multiple movies instead of planning for multiple movies of arcs. He doesn’t go through a stark change here as much as he goes through a bit of change and learns about the value of distrust on the way. That is something, sure, but when compared to Tony Stark going from a selfish merchant of death to a person with a heart in Iron Man, it pales in comparison. It’s not tangible or extreme enough to stick.

Blockbuster-series mentality aside, there should be a full movie’s worth of change in every movie. The less significant a character’s arc from the opening titles to the ending credits is, the less of an impression on the audience the character will make.

Secondly, there’s a lack of a strong and consistent antagonist. While there are many villains with similar sounding three-syllable names, most of them don’t amount to anything. The mob boss, Crimson Dawn, is only sequel bait. The marauder leader, Enfys Nest, not only has no personal connection to Han but also appears as an oppositional force only once. The crime lieutenant, Dryden Vos, is the closest thing to a proper antagonist, as he has a personal rivalry with Han through his ex-girlfriend Kira and serves as the opposition till the end. The issue is that he barely ever does anything outside of looking menacingly tough, and when he finally does fight Han at the end, the fight doesn’t have anything specific to concern – they just kind of fight because they’re on opposite sides. Dryden lacks specifics to be remembered for.

A big blockbuster hero can be only as big and memorable as their villain. Without a proper villain, the hero is left wading through an empty sandbox made of expensive CGI. What would the original Star Wars trilogy be without Vader and Sidious? The answer is, probably, Solo.

Far From Home – How to Make a Tiny Massive Blockbuster

Spider-Man: Far From Home may be the only $160 million indie movie in existence. It is a studio blockbuster sold as one, no doubt, but it functions like an intimate road-trip comedy focused more on character than plot. It’s like a huge body where the heart doesn’t get lost…

Firstly, the massive action relies on human-level stakes. The Venice fight looks to be about Spider-Man battling the water monster, but since the monster is a lie, all he can do in practice is focus on the opposite side: control the damage to save civilians and his school-group. The Prague fight looks to be about Spider-Man stopping the fire monster from eating the Ferris wheel for strength, but again it’s not real, so the true stakes come from him saving his friends on the wheel. The London fight looks to be about Spider-Man taking down an army of drones, but the true purpose is for him to shut them down before they kill his friends. No matter the grandness of the external action, there’s something smaller deep within it that it truly exists for.

A hero fighting a big CGI monstrosity can be cool but nothing more. There should be something more intimately personal at the heart of the fight for true stakes to come from.

Secondly, goals and obstacles have two rivaling sides of size. Peter wants the plot to be a small-scale romcom but his responsibilities as Spider-Man constantly turn it bigger, with compelling contrast in between. When Peter accidentally calls in a drone strike on their bus, he needs to deal with it without anyone noticing… yet the true obstacle at the core is him having to stop another kid from showing MJ a bad photo of him to blow his chances with her. When Peter goes to the opera, he has to leave to fight another dangerous monster… yet the true sacrifice at the core is that he doesn’t get to sit next to MJ and spend time with her. It’s the constant uniting mixing of the plot’s external and personal sides that gives it all force.

Blockbuster plots should be grand but also tiny enough to put the grandness in perspective. The contrast between two extremes is what sells both spectacle and emotion at once.

Thirdly, the villain’s strength comes from human dedication rather than external powers. While Mysterio may at first seem like Iron Man and Thor and Doctor Strange rolled into one, in reality he’s not – he’s just some guy with more talent in acting than anything else. Yet he doesn’t let that stop him. He puts on a show great enough to fool Spider-Man into handing him the keys to the weapons cache, he’s willing to go as far as it takes to get what he’s after, and he won’t let even his own life stand in the way. It’s his relentless obsession to get done what he’s doing no matter the odds that makes him strong. Not the fact that he’s a strong CGI monstrosity from another galaxy or whatever.

Superpowered villains can work just fine so long as their motivation and dedication exceed the sum of their physical strength. Otherwise, all they are is their physical strength.

Chaos Walking – What Studio Rework Can’t Fix

Chaos Walking is a post-apocalyptic tale starring Spider-Man and Rey that lives up to its title: it was such a messy production that it couldn’t be released until after lengthy studio rework. Too bad that even that wasn’t enough because some film dents can’t be fixed with paint…

Firstly, rivaling concepts devalue each other’s worth. The big specialty of the hero Todd’s world is that thoughts can be seen and heard externally as “the noise,” which opens up interesting interactions and conflict. Then there’s also a girl, Viola, who falls from space, which is special because women have no noise and have gone extinct. Then there’s also a village of aliens, which is special because they’re aliens. And the issue is that each new concept takes attention away from the others – the noise doesn’t seem too significant when a ten-foot alien attacks nor too necessary when all anyone thinks about anyway is a space-girl. It all just gets more confusing because the concepts don’t mix. Why don’t women have noise? What do you mean all the women are gone? What aliens? What?

High-conceptual elements should equal each other or be axed. Either the noise’s origin should be tied to the aliens and explored through them or the aliens shouldn’t exist. Either Viola’s specialty should come from her being the only person with no noise or she shouldn’t be special.

Secondly, character complexity is lost to unclear basis. The Mayor of Todd’s town is built up as a noble leader, until he’s revealed as the one behind women’s demise. And his reasons in the reshot climax do seem nuanced: women saw him for who he was and it gave him an insecure hatred of them. The issue is that the basis for the reshot nuance isn’t there. Why would the Mayor worry about showing his noise when so far he’s hidden it better than others? And what is there to get mad over since women don’t show noise to reveal what they think of him? And why wouldn’t his hate apply to men as well? And what cowardly thoughts is he hiding anyway? Overall, the Mayor’s hatred of women is built solely on the basis that they might think badly of him for some reason, which is so generic that it could apply to any character in any film.

Complexity has to come from a foundation specific to the story and the character. Had the Mayor and other men turned on women because they saw in the women’s noise what they really thought of them, it could’ve been something. There are no layers without a base to layer.

Thirdly, events don’t advance the plot in an organic manner. The chase scene of Viola running from Todd is cool but unjustified since her goal was to find locals. The scene of Viola hiding in Todd’s shed from the Mayor is full of tension but unjustified since she had no reason to return there. The fight scene with the alien is exciting but pointless since it doesn’t get the heroes closer to their objective. The reworked scenes may have value of their own, sure, but they don’t tie into the scenes around them and thus they fail the narrative.

While improving individual scenes can help, connective tissue is vital – Viola should return to Todd’s shed to get her bag or something. Otherwise, the result is a cool mess of events.

Dark of the Moon – How to Build an Epic Baybuster

Transformers: Dark of the Moon embodies the term blockbuster to such an extent that the likes of Chris Nolan reportedly take cues from the “genius” behind it, Michael Bay. It’s the kind of movie Hollywood execs have wet dreams about: a huge spectacle that casual viewers not only want to but have to see. It’s one of biggest big films ever and a lot it comes from Bayhem…

Firstly, elements are constructed on real-life value to give them an extra boost. The launch into the plot is built on the cold war space-race being a cover to investigate a crashed alien ship on the moon. The bulk of the plot is built around a conspiracy of ex-Nasa personnel dying mysteriously due to something tied to the moon. Locations involve places like Chernobyl and characters involve archival-footage of the president and so on. The fictional narrative is made to feel that much grander by positioning it on top real-life grandness. Oh, the conspiracy has roots in the cold war? Well then it must be a big deal since the cold war definitely was!

As long as reality can fit the fiction organically, the combination can make the narrative pack that much more punch. A Decepticon radiation mystery can be interesting, but a Decepticon radiation mystery that could be the source of the Chernobyl incident could be even more so.

Secondly, sequences offer experiences that are new and worthy to stand out. When the CGI worm crawls up a skyscraper to topple it – and it’s filmed on a physical set inside – it takes the rotating hallway from Inception and lifts it to a new level. When the heroes wingsuit through the city – and it’s done in-camera – it’s something that still exists in no other movie. There are things and events offered by Dark of the Moon that can be found only in Dark of the Moon. That’s what makes it a “big blockbuster” justifying the ticket price. It has to be seen to be seen.

The admirable thing about Bay is that he’s always looking for fresh entertainment to offer, whether it’s the latest camera technology or action unlike anything before. And it’s a mentality to live by – ideas should be looked for and played with until there’s something truly worthy to spend the budget on. If the audience can see it in other films, they don’t need to see yours.

Thirdly, content is pushed to the extreme to maintain excitement. Character personalities are borderline certifiable, from cocaine-head ex-Nasa workers to PTSD-ridden ex-soldiers. The story takes huge left turns, from Sentinel executing a central Autobot to reveal himself as an antagonist to Autobots dying and returning from death when it matters most. Challenges and situations play on desperation-levels, from Sam pulling off crazy stunts to save his girlfriend to the army launching a Hail Mary assault on occupied Chicago. Things are always moving so loudly or strongly or violently that there’s never a dull moment of nothing.

While story and characters should be king, the fact is that casual viewers crave excitement – they want big characters, big events, big choices and actions, and they want it fast. Bay does often go too far, yes, but leaving the viewer with nothing to look at is not among his faults.

Battleship – The Baybuster Without Bayhem

Battleship seeks to steal Bayformers’ success by making the same movie but based on a boardgame instead of robots. It has the same aesthetic, same CGI, same music and comedy and explosions and so and so on. It just didn’t work as planned and resulted in a generic flop. All thanks to some of the core Baybuster Bayhem aspects not being present…

Firstly, non-spectacle events lack extra specialty and are left bare. When the tech nerd hero talks to Nasa on Zoom, that’s all it is: he talks to them with nothing else going on. When the tech nerd later sneaks past aliens to get a radio from his trailer, that’s all it is: he gets the radio and sees an alien and leaves. When the main hero fights an alien on his ship, that’s all it is: he stops the alien from destroying the ship’s engine and then runs out and fights it. Events simply occur at face value with nothing more going for them, which often isn’t enough for casual viewers.

It depends on the movie and scene whether extra excitement is needed, but if Bayhem is the intention, the answer is usually yes. The alien fight on the ship would feel bigger and more hectic if, for example, the alien plants a bomb that the hero steals and flees to dispose of while the timer ticks down and the alien chases him to get it back. Can there – and should there – be something on top of the event itself to bring an extra layer of drama and entertainment?

Secondly, characters lack extremity and are left generically boring. While the main hero is grounded enough to anchor the story in proper emotion as he should, there’s nobody else to fill the void of larger-than-life characters. All that’s filled is expected archetypes. The tech nerd is a nerdy tech guy who likes to avoid conflict, the war veteran is a no-nonsense doer, the hero’s girlfriend is a kind soul who wants to help, and the navy commander is a hard dad of the girlfriend. The most extreme character is probably the soldier played by Todd from Breaking Bad who tells quirky stories about his lizard… and it’s not quite enough to make an impression.

Big popcorn movies need big characters with big actions and personalities. You remember Simmons from Bayformers because he’s mad, and Todd from Breaking Bad because he shoots a kid as if it’s fine. But you don’t remember anybody here because there’s nothing to remember.

Thirdly, the spectacle offers nothing new and thus doesn’t stand out. There is a lot of big-budget Bayhem action, sure – from ship explosions and sinkings, to debris falling from space, to an alien invasion involving flying ships and metal suits. But all of that can be found not only in other movies but in Bay’s filmography alone, and usually in a better way. The few moments that are original to the concept aren’t pushed far enough, like how the battleship game sequence is mostly a gimmick with the same rockets and explosions in practice. There’s not enough spectacle unlike anything else before that would make the casual audience crave a ticket.

The only way to justify a big budget is with something unique to use it for. Dunkirk advances naval disasters by showing it with incredible veracity. Greyhound advances naval battles by taking a more detail-oriented approach to it. What do you offer that others don’t?

The Tomorrow War – How to Unite a Big Movie

The Tomorrow War deals with two separate time-plotlines: the future where the hero goes to fight aliens and the present where his family is left behind. And instead of these two threads becoming partial and separate like in Assassin’s Creed, they work as one and at once…

Firstly, the timelines develop the same characters and bonds. Though the hero, Dan, leaves his daughter in the present without much screentime, she’s not whatever noise existing just so that “the hero has a family.” Instead, he works with an adult version of her in the future. That’s what builds the daughter as a person and makes us invest in Dan’s fight. The more Dan bonds with her in the future to make us care, the more we care about the bond in the present when he returns, since it’s the same relationship with the same person across time. Not to mention that the daughter’s growth to learn to forgive Dan in the future also makes Dan grow and learn to forgive his own dad in the present. People and relationships on both sides evolve as one.

Assassin’s Creed is two movies because its two timelines have two sets of characters. Had some key villains and prisoners in the present also been involved in the past through their own ancestors, they could’ve gotten enough substance to not be forgotten as nobodies.

Secondly, the timelines advance the same narrative elements. The plot focuses mostly on finding a toxin to destroy the aliens in the future, but it’s not concluded so. Instead, Dan fails and is pulled back to the present to finish things. The work done in the future is built upon in the present when Dan heads to kill the aliens with the toxin before they awake from ice to save both today and tomorrow. In terms of goals and dangers and stakes, the present leads to the future and the future leads to the present. And there’s a cause and effect between the timelines as well, as the future war affects the culture and people’s behavior in the present. Two are one.

Assassin’s Creed is two movies because once the MacGuffin is found in the present thanks to the past, it all just ends without a proper third act or showcase of what the MacGuffin even does. Had that finale been built on the events of the past – like how Dan in the present battles the alien queen that killed his daughter in the future – it could’ve been more than cool visuals.

Thirdly, the timelines serve one identity. Dan’s bond with his dad is broken because the dad couldn’t readjust to life after Vietnam, and the daughter in the future reveals that time did the same to Dan after Iraq. That’s what the movie is as a whole: an allegory for the Vietnam war and the personal cost of war. It deals with PTSD, rehabilitation, war protests, and unfit recruits fighting enemies very unlike them, all of which exists under one umbrella. It’s easier to not get lost when every small thing that happens revolves around the same big thing.

Assassin’s Creed is two movies because the core idea of humanity’s violent nature is barely in play. It’s the villains who are violent in the past, while in the present there’s no mass rioting or violence visible at all since we’re stuck in a facility. Had it been clear why the villains need the MacGuffin to control human nature in the present and how, it could’ve been more than noise.

CHAPTER 15

HOLLYWOOD: FRANCHISE

Franchises are what all studios want their blockbusters and adaptations to eventually lead to. Why stop at one successful movie when its success can be repeated? Why convince audiences to take a chance on something new when it’s much easier to re-sell them something they’ve already once enjoyed? Why go find other goldmines when you can dig the one you have until it’s dry? Not the most artistically creative way to think about it, but at the end of the day, franchising makes things easier both for the studios putting up the money as well as the casual audiences in need of reasons to drive to the theater to spend money.

The downside to building cinematic giants is that if and when they stumble, the fall is massive and comes with foundation-and-career-shattering consequences. You don’t want to be responsible for driving a multi-billion-dollar cinematic universe into the ground or for turning its gigantic fanbase hostile. Warners has been in a tough spot for a long time due to their infinite cash-cow, DC, being stuck between rivaling agendas both in the studio and in the audience.

In a way, all cinematic franchises must ultimately choose between two fates: you either die a hero like the Man With No Name trilogy or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain like all those IPs that kept being dug up until they lost touch. And the lifecycle leading up to that fate follows a familiar three-stage structure, one of which, depending on the time, will be your responsibility as the writer and/or filmmaker to handle:

– Stage I: launching and rebooting.

– Stage II: utilizing and sustaining and reinforcing.

– Stage III: landing and concluding.

Each of these three points in a franchise’s lifecycle comes with different challenges, which this chapter aims to explore further. A lot of weight will be placed on your shoulders, so heed what type of weight it is and carry it with the type of strength that matches it…

Black Adam – How to Fumble an Origin Movie

Black Adam showed up to change the DCEU’s hierarchy of power, only to be smothered in the crib by that very change. What was meant to be a standard-shattering birth of a franchise amounted to nothing but a week’s worth of attention, thanks to its lack of a distinct identity…

Firstly, the hero doesn’t yet carry motivated agency to define himself. Once Adam is wished into existence by another character, he has nothing to do with his existence outside of lashing out at whatever soldiers and superheroes attack him. Most of the time he’s floating around reacting to things like a lost super-buff Pit-bull, without any larger objective to give him direction or purpose. He is strong enough to demolish armies, yes, but weak enough to be pushed by the plot and other characters since he’s born empty-handed. And that leaves him uncompelling, uninteresting, and un-unique outside of being The Rock in a cool costume.

Peter in Spider-Man immediately uses his new powers to chase his goals in a way that leads to choices and consequences – that’s him. Whereas if a new hero is so lacking of defining purpose that he may as well be any other buff hero, there’s not enough “him” to hook the viewer.

Secondly, the content is a mashup of existing identities and elements. The backdrop of Kahndaq and Eternium has been seen in Black Panther. Adam’s power comes from the same source as in Shazam! The action is a big combination of elements from Man of Steel combat to Days of Future Past slow-mo to Deadpool violence to MCU tone to DC CGI monstrosities. The main relationship of Adam being a dad for the boy and the boy a source of humanity for Adam is a copy-paste of T2. Even the other superheroes have been seen in some form like how Doctor Fate is much like Doctor Strange. All of this can be cool to watch but the issue is that it doesn’t sell the specialty of the property itself. What is Black Adam other than other things?

While drawing elements from elsewhere to push them further can be fine, every new franchise must offer something of its own to justify its existence. What is the need for this movie if everything it has to give can already be found elsewhere?

Thirdly, the villain exists to serve the hero’s origin. The main bad guy is a local working with colonizers stealing Kahndaq’s resources, and his true plan is to use a magic crown to become the land’s new ruler. And there’s no deeper insight as to why – there’s zero exploration of his personal life or the struggles he’s gone through to generate his motive. He seeks to be king just because his ancestors used to be kings and thus it’s his birthright, and the reason that’s meaningful is because the old king killed Adam’s family in the past! As in, the villain exists solely to be a literal demon from hell that the hero can stop to rectify his past mistakes.

Norman Osborne in Spider-Man doesn’t exist for Peter, but instead, he’s a man with his own problems to solve and choices to make, all of which leads him to a clash with Peter. A villain who’s a mere footnote in the hero’s origin will not be able lift the origin very high.

Game of Thrones – A Finish to Flip a Fanbase, Part I

Game of Thrones: Season 8 soars down from great heights to land in a spectacular crash that wouldn’t be forgiven by armies of online fans for years to come. It’s impossible to please such a massive fanbase as a whole, sure, but there are some specific things that don’t exactly help…

Firstly, the main payoffs unfold in a scaled-down manner. When the heroes finally face off with the Night King after years of buildup, one would assume it to amount to a big ultimate clash that takes a lot to overcome. Yet, the thing that’s too much for the King to handle is the second blade that comes his way: he gets stabbed once and dies instantly along with his entire army. There is a lot of challenge on the way to the ultimate clash, definitely, but the King himself goes out like a little paper tiger b!¤%. And while it is subversive and shocking, it also leaves some fans feeling cheated since they spent a decade of their time on a villain only to see him die to the first blow the moment his plot-armor is removed.

Subversion can be great but is often at its best when used to elevate. For Cersei to ascend to the greatest power in the realm only to be slayed by a pile of rocks, it’s not quite what fans expected. And with at least some main payoffs, expectations should be met and exceeded.

Secondly, final choices feel artificial rather than motivated in the moment. When Daenerys chooses to burn King’s Landing despite having made her enemy surrender, it does showcase how far she’s come and gone as a person. The issue for some, though, is that in the moment of choice there’s nothing to warrant the choice. She does have a problem with Cersei, but she doesn’t attack Cersei or anyone important to Cersei – she attacks civilians and her own city. There’s no tangible inductor on screen to transfer Daenerys’ hatred of Cersei to the civilians. It’s like she does what she does just because the writers wanted a big decision to end with.

Strong choices do belong in a finale, but they need to be earned in the moment. Had Cersei held Daenerys’ (still living) handmaiden hostage among civilians after her army’s surrender, and had Daenerys begged the civilians to move out of her dragon’s way or to stop Cersei, only for nobody to act out of fear and for Cersei to then kill the handmaiden out of spite… that would justify the rage that Daenerys unleashes on the masses. It’d be on screen.

Thirdly, the ending is built on a low note. Since Daenerys destroys her enemies and her city in the penultimate episode, in the final episode there’s not much left to do other than talk and wrap up loose ends. There are powerful moments, no doubt, but it’s all relatively easy and without big external conflict or challenges to overcome. While the finale is by no means a flat line, to some audiences it can feel like one compared to the rollercoaster they just came from.

Although every story is different, often it’s wise to finish near the high-point climax instead of sticking around to meander for an hour. Breaking Bad ends the way it ends and then it’s over, unforgettably. The further away from the high you continue, the less of a high you end on.

The Rise of Skywalker – A Finish to Flip a Fanbase, Part II

Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker was forced to satisfy a fanbase that had grown so adverse that satisfaction was never an option. All Disney could do was draw influence from Endgame and try to cook up the best trilogy-ender possible. Unfortunately, many of the pieces required for an end like that weren’t in the right place or really even anywhere in sight…

Firstly, the last ride is constructed on nothing. Palpatine has returned and the heroes must stop his Final Order armada from enslaving the galaxy, and it comes out of nowhere, as both Palpatine and his armada are just suddenly there without any prior leadup or buildup. The previous episodes didn’t explore much of the galaxy either since they took place over a couple days, which leaves the “entire galaxy being at stake” side quite hollow. Not to mention that at the end of the previous movie the First Order had the Resistance and the Jedi on the run, so what’s even the need for another big villain? It’s as if things begin from scratch.

Endgame is a massive last ride because it’s built directly on top of the previous ride of Thanos getting the Infinity stones to snap away half of life. Skywalker feels more like a first ride built off to the side instead of something that extends the previous ones to new heights.

Secondly, the final set of reveals and additions lack practical significance. Palpatine’s return in itself may be gigantic, yet nothing is done with it to re-introduce him – he just shows up to talk. The Knights of Ren’s big return consists of them simply walking past a stormtrooper who says, “Woah, those are the badass Knights of Ren!” Rey’s Sith powers are revealed through her accidentally killing Chewie, only for Chewie to be shown to be fine a minute later which defeats the purpose. Rey’s dark roots are revealed by Kylo saying them out loud. It’s as if no effort is put into introducing or re-introducing the concluding elements in practice.

Final reveals have power when they’re tied to actions and consequences reflecting the fact that the game is being played on the final stage. Had the truth about Rey’s heritage been delivered via the moment of her accidentally killing Chewie – without the act being nullified immediately after – it could’ve made the heritage truth seem like a big deal.

Thirdly, the conclusions have nothing powerful to conclude. Kylo goes up against his own knights in a final battle, but since we’ve never seen the knights do battle with or without him, there’s little sense of irony or challenge in it. The Resistance takes on the Final Order armada to stop it from enslaving the galaxy, but since we hardly know anyone in the galaxy, there’s not too much reason to care. Rey fights her own Sith grandpa to the death, but since his strength and motives so far have seemed to shift and change based on what the plot requires, it’s mostly a big lightning show. The climaxes are largely as they appear with little more about them.

The portal climax in Endgame feels powerful because we know the heroes who return from death to help. The ship-arrival climax in Skywalker feels hollow because it’s mostly a bunch of random ships. Conclusions work best when they have something to conclude.

Halloween Kills – When Franchise Roots Turn Toxic, Part I

Halloween Kills gives its all to beat out the other entries in the new Michael Myers trilogy and does indeed pull it off: it manages to be the worst one! And among the key reasons for that negative achievement is the film’s obsession with its franchise’s past. It puts so much focus on legacy elements that it forgets to build a legacy of its own…

Firstly, legacy characters supersede an anchored perspective. Officer Hawkins initially seems to be the main hero, as his flashback sets him up to go on a journey to stop Michael in a way he couldn’t in the past. But no, he’s soon wheeled to a hospital where he stays, and the POV moves on elsewhere. It moves to a new couple in town who join familiar faces to die instantly, and to now-adult kids from the original movie who either vanish or serve more of an antagonistic role, and to a couple living in Michael’s house, and to Laurie’s family at the end. There’s no central POV hero for the viewer to experience and overcome the events with, but instead, just a bunch of shallow characters with legacy ties to watch be affected by the events.

While legacy characters can be cool, every movie needs a primary point(s) of view to develop and put things in perspective with. Handing the POV baton off from one character to another every fifteen minutes makes it difficult to get invested enough to care, legacy ties or not.

Secondly, time is wasted reminiscing about the franchise’s past. Hawkins’ flashbacks do establish vital plot details like Michael’s motivation to go home, but they’re not too useful on the character side since Hawkins does nothing in the movie. The bar scenes exist almost entirely to explain and recount the events of the original film with details like what happened and to whom, which doesn’t help sell who those people are today. The two guys living in Michael’s house have no purpose other than to hype their house up as Michael’s former home. It’s as if acknowledging the past is more important than making the most out of the present.

Drawing from yesterday can be nostalgic like how Endgame visits the past, but it should amount to fresh entertainment today. To spend full scenes on people explaining what took place in an earlier movie is only that and nothing more – casual viewers who don’t care will go to sleep while fans who do care already know. It’s not a movie but a filler episode of TV.

Thirdly, references degrade the world and characters. Although the whole town getting involved in Michael’s hunt does expand on the legacy of the original movie, it comes with dire results. When four civilians with lacking skills go look for Michael alone and die, it’s like yeah, what’d you expect? When a guy enters a house to fight Michael alone just because he once ran into him as a kid, and then dies, it’s like yeah, that’s what happens. When an entire hospital of people and doctors turn into raging zombies from World War Z just because they think Michael is there, it’s weird. The callbacks are so inorganic in practice that they mostly turn things dumb.

Motivations stemming from the past can be compelling, yes, but only if they make sense in the current context. References may be used but not forced, or else all they do is ruin the result.

Jurassic World Dominion – When Franchise Roots Turn Toxic, Part II

Jurassic World Dominion offers many fresh and exciting sequences worthy of a ticket price, including an urban motor-chase with weaponized raptors. Great! The issue, however, is that it also has another side that jettisons all proper scene-work in favor of following legacy characters on a pointless journey, as if the word “legacy” alone justifies its existence…

Firstly, the legacy plotline lacks drama and dramatic value. While Chris Pratt’s side is dealing with disobedient teenagers and kidnappings and loose dinosaurs and falling planes, the duo from the first movie, Alan and Ellie, are mostly having a good time. They reunite without conflict, they get an all-expenses-paid trip to the villain’s base, they find the locusts they’re looking for by being guided by hand, and overall, they waltz their way through the plot like on a fun picnic. There’s almost no oppositional force between them or with the world around them.

Drama is the heart of entertainment in all movies and with all characters, legacy or not. With no kind of dramatic value, all that’s there is pointless talking and walking, which is much like watching grass grow. The grass may be from your childhood, sure, but it’s still grass growing.

Secondly, the legacy plotline’s challenge is relatively easy. While Chris Pratt’s side is outrunning weaponized dinos and wading through a deadly jungle, Alan and Ellie play on recruit difficulty. They roam the villain’s base freely as guests, they get the locust sample without the locusts ever having been sold as lethal, and they flee cave dinos that are the slowest and shortest known to man. There is challenge in the caves, yes, but not when compared to the other plotline of domestic conflict and plane crashes and giant Freddy Krueger dinosaurs. Not to mention that once the plotlines unite, the legacy difficulty carries over to turn Apex predators into idiots and villains into crying babies who give up the moment something goes wrong.

The easier the journey, the less significant it will feel, even with legacy characters. If all it takes to survive the cave dinos is to walk casually to the nearest minecart and step up on it, and if the heroes don’t even have to escape the cave themselves, it’s not too compelling.

Thirdly, the legacy plotline’s stakes are nonexistent and thus it’s hard to care about. While Chris Pratt’s side is fighting for the survival of their family, Alan and Ellie are mostly on holiday. The locust threat doesn’t concern them or anyone close to them, nor does their investigatory narrative even establish a proper basis for the villain’s actions. Instead, it’s the usual “the entire world is in danger so we better do something about it.” And it’s so unnecessary that the legacy locust plotline may as well have been cut out in favor of going all in on the main plotline. If the whole movie was about Pratt trying to save his daughter from the villain who seeks to harvest her DNA for some reason, it could’ve been more than enough to care.

Legacy material should add something to a narrative or it shouldn’t be part of it. To force empty stakes that concern the entire human world, even though most of the plot doesn’t even take place in the human world but rather in the wild, will most likely result in wasted screentime.

Suicide Squad – A DC-sastrous Case Study

Suicide Squad showed up to lift the DCEU to new heights, only to end up adding fuel to the flames that would eventually burn it down. Not only is it one of the most despised superhero movies out there, but it also features some of the most despicable treatment of its superhero material. It’s like a cinematic middle finger that the fanbase can only flip off in return…

Firstly, characters are their external shells and nothing more. Killer Croc is a crocodile-man who eats people, Rick Flag is a US soldier who’s a soldier for the US, Enchantress is an evil witch who does evil witching, and Harley Quinn is a crazy Joker-like clown who does crazy stuff. Most people are exactly as they seem without layers or deeper exploration into why, like how even Amanda Waller is a tough government lady simply because she is. It’s as if all that these DC characters are good for is to be boring sums of their superficial parts.

Even if Killer Croc is a crocodile-man in the comics, a movie should ask how he can be more than that – more than a monster who eats meat and people. At least Captain Boomerang goes on some sort of an arc that develops him beyond being a criminal who throws boomerangs.

Secondly, the value of characters and bonds isn’t present. Flag and Enchantress fall in love in three seconds because Waller says so. Katana’s sword traps the souls of her victims because Flag mentions it. The bombs planted in the squad’s heads are showcased by killing a random side-guy with no proper role. Harley is presented to be a dangerous maniac needing multiple guards to be controlled in jail, even though all she actually does is hit her head to knock herself out. It’s as if the worth of the characters isn’t bothered to be built up on screen since its existence in the source material will surely do the job all on its own… which it doesn’t.

The value of franchise characters and elements must be developed in the movie, no way around it. You can’t say that Harley is more fearless than the Joker, only to then show her s#!% her pants when the Joker drives their purple Lamborghini off a ramp. It doesn’t work like that.

Thirdly, characters are handled in a derogatory and unfaithful manner. Batman shows up to fight Deadshot in front of his daughter instead of waiting even though that makes him very similar to the killer of his own parents. The Joker not only wears hot topic clothes around his body and cringy tattoos on his face, but he also openly hangs out at clubs with everyone else even though he apparently killed Robin. Harley Quinn is an oversexualized idiot because for some reason that’s all that Warners sees her live action version as. Sigh.

While filmmakers should be free to reinvent franchise characters and material, there are always inherent qualities that make them what they are. Batman wouldn’t attack a little girl’s father in an alley because that traumatic event is literally the basis for his being. And if the Joker shows up in a Skrillex music video about purple Lamborghinis, what else is there for the fanbase to do other than give you the finger as you did to them?

The Suicide Squad – A DC-tastic Case Study

The Suicide Squad, not to be confused with Suicide Squad, is James Gunn’s live action version of the suicide squad. And as much as it pains the DC fan in me to say, leave it to the Marvel writer-director to show up to show how it’s done. It’s a massive upgrade from last time…

Firstly, characters are layered with irony. Peacemaker seeks to bring peace to the world as per his gimmick, yet in practice it means murdering every man, woman, and child in the way. It’s the stark difference between who he is and what he does that automatically gives him depth and layers. That’s what makes him and others more than meets the eye – be it a giant man-eating shark who acts like a little puppy longing for friends, or a professional assassin who’s afraid of rats due to his childhood, or an insecure manchild who can kill anyone instantly. People are more than the sum of their shells, not to mention entertaining and funny.

Flaws and arcs are always the most effective method to create three-dimensional characters, like how Bloodsport goes from a lone wolf to a leader seeing Ratcatcher as a proxy of his own daughter. But when time is tight, irony is the surest way to fill a character with layers.

Secondly, characters and the material earn their value on screen. King Shark’s loneliness is shown through his desperate struggle to fit in. Peacemaker’s willingness to do anything for “peace” is shown through him murdering not only loads of people but also Rick Flag. Polka-Dot Man’s mommy issues are shown through his eyes. The squad’s initial lack of coordination is shown by having them kill a full village of non-enemies. Even the title referencing suicide missions is hammered in in practice, with the initial POV hero group being sent out to be massacred. The material’s specialty is right there on the screen.

If you want something to be taken seriously, you need to sell it in practice. But if you want something to be taken less seriously and be laughed at – like with the trauma behind Bloodsport’s rat-phobia – you need to sell it through words. Either way, the value must actually be sold in the movie instead of expecting it to magically appear thanks to the source material.

Thirdly, character perspectives anchor tone and emotion. The beginning is told through Savant’s eyes, which keeps the initial mission and massacre in a consistently serious perspective. The reason that’s vital is because if the POV in the battle suddenly jumped over to Harley for example, all the danger and seriousness would be ruined since she doesn’t view the world that way, as is the case later. And once Savant’s section is done, the POV transfers to Bloodsport who keeps it almost fully to the end to keep things consistent. The rest of the squad may be all over the place in terms of personality and skills, but he’s there to ground it.

While it is okay for a movie to let side characters loose as per their signature nature, the experience should be anchored in a perspective strong enough to keep things from getting out of hand. Otherwise, all that the franchise elements will amount to is a muddled mess.

Terminator Salvation – How Reboots Fail

Terminator Salvation plans to restart the good ol’ Terminator engine in the future but without much luck because the engine coughs and cuts out instantly. So much focus is put on “rebooting the franchise” that what’s forgotten is making a movie able to stand on its own…

Firstly, characters are manifestations of the franchise without drives of their own. Marcus Wright is on death row in 2008 (for some reason), after which he awakes in the future where runs into Kyle Reese (somehow), and begins to reveal his (arbitrary) personality and talents from sudden combat-mechanic skills to a goal of finding someone he never actually tries to find. He’s not a person with a background and story of his own as much as he’s the part he plays in the Terminator lore – his whole being revolves around things like donating his body to Cyberdyne and meeting Reese and taking a detour to go meet John Connor. The reason to care about Marcus is not Marcus but the franchise elements around him.

While characters in a reboot should fit the franchise, they must also be their own people. If Connor is nothing more than a machine-hating blank badass with a shallow love-interest just because that’s what the lore has posed him to be, he won’t be too interesting. Why does he hate machines? Why is he so obsessed with Reese? Build and contextualize it properly in the reboot.

Secondly, the plot is a random collection of franchise events. Since Marcus lacks a personal drive, most of his journey consists of him bumping into things: he runs into Reese, fixes a radio while Connor happens to be speaking, abandons his mission to find someone when machines show up, meets a crashed pilot and goes to her base and gets rescued and heads off to save Reese. That’s the entire plot on his side. He doesn’t advance toward a destination as much as he ambles along to run into one incidental franchise element after another that pulls him along.

A reboot’s narrative should feature franchise elements, sure, but not at the cost of becoming a slave to them. Connor’s entire journey consists of him hanging around to test a signal that he stumbled into until it turns out to be a trap, which doesn’t amount to much in terms of plot.

Thirdly, the lack of an all-encompassing antagonist leads to a lacking purpose. Since the main idea is for Skynet to have taken over, there’s a big variety of hostile machines to represent it, from T600s to Motorcyclenators to a giant Transforminator to a Cyberdyne doctor to a T800. But what that variety does is degrade both consistency and purpose. The plot of stopping the T800s’ creation seems less significant when there’s a giant undefeated Transforminator. The plot of Skynet resorting to a fake signal to destroy the resistance seems less sensical when the resistance is never proven to be a threat to it and since, surely, killing Reese and Connor is worth more than maintaining the lie? It’s like a big mess of contradicting antagonistic angles.

No matter the amount of villains offered by a franchise, it’s one central point of conflict that defines a reboot. That central conflict can be the creation of the T800s or Marcus being a new kind of terminator or the survival of Kyle Reese or something else. But it can’t be them all.

Rise of an Empire – An Example of Franchise Rules

300: Rise of an Empire is a 300 movie mostly in name only, as beyond the gory violence and cool slow-motion, it can barely be recognized as one. That’s because all franchises have foundational rules making up their identity, which here are missing. And although all rules vary with every franchise, what Empire lacks is a good case study of what those rules can be…

Firstly, the world isn’t exaggerated in terms of conflict and events. The first movie is told through an unreliable narrator hyping up the dangers that Leonidas and his men faced: soldiers with huge numbers, beasts and sorcerers from across the world, and undead assassins who decorate trees with the dead. Whereas Empire sticks pretty close to the ground with its enemies, with the heroes fighting basic soldiers on a beach and basic soldiers on ships and basic soldiers on a reef. The action itself is heightened, sure, but what’s missing is the extra step into the unreal and the mythology that 300 took with oracles and creatures. Why are the villain’s elite soldiers just random dudes who blow up? Why are the water beasts just a dream?

For a 300 movie about the American Revolutionary War to be a 300 movie, it should feature crazy elite British soldiers as well as creatures from the local mythology. Without that extreme exaggeration it won’t be more than another American Revolutionary War movie.

Secondly, the logistical essence isn’t built around an area of specificity. The heroic stand in the first movie takes place at the Hot Gates, which gives it a clear purpose, identity, and logic: the narrow passage is the Spartans’ only way to stop the Persians from reaching their home. Whereas in Empire the stand is less focused. The Persians already got through on land, so what’s the point of the sea-battle? The location is just some part of the sea, so what’s the iconic nature to remember it for? The Persians could easily surround the heroes to end the battle if they wanted to, so how does the battle even make sense? It’s mostly people just… fighting.

A 300 battle set in the American Revolutionary War should happen in one iconic place, around one important war-altering purpose, in a feasibly sensical manner. That logistical essence of the heroic stand defines the foundation that everything else in the movie is built upon.

Thirdly, the hero is more passively average than actively legendary. Leonidas in the first movie is a passionate king and husband whose actions live up to his name. He climbs mountains to listen to an oracle only to oppose her words, he kicks a messenger offering a free pass down a hole, he defies orders of political powers. And while Themistocles in Empire is a great warrior, that’s about it. So little is known about him and what he’s fighting for that he can’t be seen as a person. He doesn’t face big non-battle choices or obstacles to test his resolve, nor does he even do much outside of fighting. He’s mostly a dull, passive soldier with great abs.

Artemisia is a strong character due to the incredible willpower required by her journey. In that vein, the hero of a 300 movie set in the Revolutionary War should be an active man or woman of steel facing hurdles that test them not only physically but in every way. That’s a rule of 300.

CHAPTER 16

HOLLYWOOD: SEQUEL

It’s no secret that sequels have become the main thing putting food on the table of poor studio executives. But to understand the full extent of it, consider the question of how many of the ten highest grossing Hollywood movies of 2022 are sequels. Four? Five? Six? The answer is nine. The one and only non-sequel that was able to squeeze its way on the board is The Batman (a reboot) in seventh place.

And while it’s easy to scoff at the studios’ overreliance on numbered films, it’s a simple case of supply and demand. Sequels are the easiest films for casual audiences to see since their value has been proven to them beforehand. Joe Average wants to know that the trip to the theater is worth it before he makes it because he has endless entertainment at home as well.

The most important aspect to realize about the topic is that there’s a big difference between a sequel that’s a good movie and a movie that’s a good sequel – those aren’t the same. A good movie can result in a bad sequel, while a bad movie can result in a good sequel. The decisive factor comes down to the connection a sequel has with its predecessor(s). And if I had to boil down the key components that influence the nature and worth of that connection, it’d probably look something like this:

So in this chapter, to delve deeper into those key words, let’s look at various cinematic continuations and the cores that make them as they are. Again, not so much to deduce whether the movies are “good” or “bad,” but to understand what it is that leads them to succeed or fail as a sequel, and if and how they earn their existence beyond being a cash grab.

Dead Man’s Chest – The Worthy Follow-up, Part I

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest doesn’t excel only in plot and other craft-related areas but also in building a worthy successor to its predecessor. Most of all thanks to the core sequel aspects that justify its existence: continuation, escalation, and dynamic evolution...

Firstly, the efforts of the past are continued to be the challenges of the present. In the first movie, Jack’s defining objective was to reclaim his captainship of the Black Pearl, along with the ability to sail the seas as a free man. And now, those very same things return to define the sequel. Not only is Davy Jones coming for Jack for being the captain of the Pearl, but Beckett and the East India Trading Company also arrive to snuff out the freedom he represents. Jack’s prior actions aren’t just tossed aside and forgotten – it’s not like he just has the Pearl now and whatever. Instead, what happens now can happen only due to what happened previously.

For a sequel to be a step forward rather than backwards or in place, it needs to carry on the elements that defined the predecessor. Will and Liz aren’t “just together” now as if them getting together in the last movie is suddenly old news, but instead, their love born last time is put to the test and used against them by Beckett. It’s the next step for their previous actions.

Secondly, the levels of the past are escalated to make the present feel bigger. While last time the villain was a crew of undead pirates who sail the seas, now the villain is a crew of dead fishmen with a captain that controls the fate of all who die at sea. Said captain, Davy Jones, wields not only a sea monster straight from the bible, but also an intimidating aura of his own that leaves even Jack struggling to find a witty response. In every sense – be it toughness or danger or mythological value or whatever – Jones seems to play on a higher level than Barbossa. Much like how Beckett eclipses all of Port Royal’s power from last time.

For a sequel to be a step up rather than down or sideways, it doesn’t need to be bigger, but it does need to feel bigger. Will fights for the life of his fiancée instead of a chick he likes, while Norrington fights to have a life. It feels like more is on the line and more is required to win.

Thirdly, the dynamics of characters and bonds are evolved into new versions. Jack used to embody fearless confidence but now it’s immediately taken away as he loses his mojo to the Kraken’s mark. Will used to feel out of place but now he knows his place exactly. Norrington used to wield the power of the Navy but now he’s a powerless drunk working on a pirate ship. The bond between Will and Elizabeth used to be about them looking at each other from a distance, but now it’s about the question of can it withstand the strain put up by their new, distancing sides. It’s the same familiar characters and relationships… as version 2.0.

For a sequel to feel fresh and three-dimensional, character layers need to be peeled to reveal new sides. A Jack who’s the same as last time is stagnant. A Jack who becomes a useless drunk for the whole time is not Jack. But a Jack who loses his mojo at the start and works his way back up to reclaim it… that reveals a brand new shade of who he is. Evolution!

Wrath of the Titans – The Worthy Follow-up, Part II

Wrath of the Titans may not be anything to write home about as a film, but it does succeed its predecessor with top marks, in many same ways as the greatest sequel ever, Terminator 2. And it’s fact that the movie itself isn’t so great that makes it such a great example to learn from…

Firstly, the journey is familiar at heart but freshly different in practice. The inciting incident is the same as in the first film: Perseus lives as a humble fisherman when a non-human monster shows up to attack him. But whereas last time the attack killed his family and based his journey on revenge, now he saves his family and goes on the journey to prevent what’s to come. The underlying emotional charge is positive instead of negative. Same with the rivalry between Zeus and Hades – it’s still there but now more direct and taking place in Hades’ kingdom where he holds the power, not to mention that it’s become a triangle with Ares. As in, the godly conflict that defines the franchise is very much present, only in a new way.

A sequel needs to be similar enough to its predecessor to capture its essence while also being different enough to not be the same. It’s a fine line to walk. T2 has time-traveling terminators as it should but it also mixes up the dynamics by sending two of them.

Secondly, both successful and unsuccessful past ideas are expanded upon. The plot of gods losing their power due to human neglect didn’t work too well last time, but instead of it being abandoned in favor of another square one, it’s honored and utilized further. Signs of all religion and faith are gone, once-mighty shrines lie in ruin, the greatest of gods like Poseidon turn to dust, and the plot revolves around gods losing control of an ancient evil. The situation has grown incredibly dire, all thanks to it being built on the prior foundation. It’s like Zeus himself says as he asks for help: “People stopped praying, and now there will consequences.” Damn.

A sequel has power when it’s built on the power of yesterday, no matter if it fully worked then or not. Zeus learning to respect Hades means a lot because of how much he looked down on him last time, whereas Perseus having to fight a god means a lot because last time he only had to deal with someone empowered by a god. A building built on a foundation rises higher.

Thirdly, past weaknesses are fixed and addressed. Perseus used to be a passive shell but now he lives up to his title of being the son of Zeus, as he defeats monsters and gods on his own and pushes the plot with his own drive. The gods used to be inactive snore-fests but now they’re down in the dirt to use their incredible abilities as well as chase Perseus on their own. Even the world makes much more sense now, like how the prayer strike doesn’t come out of nowhere but instead as a result of the gods’ previous attack. It’s much, much better.

A sequel with balls is the one that takes the cool ideas that didn’t work last time and makes them work – improvement is the key to quality. Yeah, the Kraken didn’t get much buildup in Clash, but Kronos does get it here and thus has a much stronger leadup. If in a third movie they also improve on the physical battle aspect of the finale, they could be onto something amazing.

On Stranger Tides – When a Sequel Becomes a Spinoff

Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides is the fourth official Pirates entry that in practice feels like a lesser side-quest found in a McDonald’s happy meal. Instead of version 4, it comes off as version 3.5 at best, as if Jack has become stuck in a not so valuable spinoff…

Firstly, the hero isn’t relevant to the plot. As set up by the third film, Jack is seeking the Fountain of Youth – except he’s not the one seeking it. He hears rumors that “Jack Sparrow” is hiring a crew to go on a voyage to find the fountain, he gets drugged and dragged onto the voyage, and he’s forced to guide the voyage to the finish. He is given motives on the way, sure, like reclaiming the Pearl from Blackbeard and being controlled with voodoo and saving Angelica. But none of those motives remain active to the end or even directly tie into the main fountain-plot, seeing as finding the fountain has no effect on getting the Pearl back for example. It’s as if Jack’s tagging along on someone else’s journey in between real journeys of his own.

A true sequel is driven by leads rather than strangers. The mermaid hunt is cool except that it’s told through unknown pirates, the bond between the priest and the mermaid could be cool except that they’re side characters. If a main hero like Jack isn’t involved, it’s the wrong movie.

Secondly, the plot lacks significance and meaning. There’s no major change caused by the journey compared to the end of At World’s End: Barbossa becomes the same pirate he was, Jack still has no Pearl to sail, and no governing power is defeated to alter the heroes’ world. Plus, there are no big stakes either, as the fountain itself is so unimportant that most parties have interest only in what’s around it. Barbossa seeks it to find Blackbeard, the Spanish seek it to destroy it, the British seek it since the Spanish do, and Jack doesn’t care at all. Blackbeard is trying to survive a deadly prophecy but even that’s all words and weird since his ship makes him practically unbeatable. Mostly, it’s like a weekend holiday trip that characters to go on.

A true sequel pushes people and things to the next major outcome. If more focus was put on the backstory of Blackbeard taking Barbossa’s leg and the Pearl, and on Jack reclaiming the Pearl, it could’ve mattered. Currently though, not much matters or changes from last time.

Thirdly, past successes and events are nullified. Even though the third movie ended in a battle for pirates’ freedom, here it turns out to have amounted to very little since things begin on the notion that the Crown holds power over piracy. Hangings are casual entertainment, Gibbs is put on trial, Jack is captured and held at the palace like it’s no big deal, Barbossa has switched over to the Navy because it’s “the winning side” and thus his best shot at getting back at Blackbeard. Even the Navy fairs against pirates just fine until the Spanish eventually show up to hold the upper hand. It’s as if Beckett’s defeat last time left – at most – a tiny dent.

A true sequel honors the events and dynamical shifts of the past and builds on them. The Navy can be a threat to pirates, but they should have to regain their status after their previous loss. A continuation of a story requires continuing the story, instead of doing whatever.

Jason Bourne – When a Sequel is not Enough, Part I

Jason Bourne reunites Matt Damon and director Paul Greengrass for one more Bourne ride that, most of all, comes off as a casual victory lap driven at half the speed of the racing laps before it. It’s exactly the same as before, but unlike before, with no reason to occur. Like a non-continuing continuation that may as well have stayed where it previously finished…

Firstly, the content is a recycled compilation of the past. The Athens foot-chase of Bourne losing a CIA tail with Nicky in a protest is cool, sure, but was already done in the Berlin foot-chase of Bourne losing a CIA tail with Nicky in a protest in Supremacy. The barebones brawl with the Asset is well done, yes, but was already done many times like with the Desh barebones brawl in Ultimatum. Nicky getting shot while riding with Bourne is powerful, no doubt, but was much more so when it was Marie getting shot when riding with Bourne in Supremacy. The plot of Bourne being hunted by the CIA is… actually getting quite repetitive. Overall, the film has nothing to offer that hasn’t already been offered by its own predecessors in a better way.

Movies aren’t bands – they don’t need a best-of album. Yeah, Bourne being the chaser rather than the chased in the Vegas car chase does shift the dynamics, but it’s still a one-on-one downtown car chase between Bourne and an asset. It’s not enough to justify a whole new “album.” Sequels need to be made up of new songs rather than remasters of old ones.

Secondly, the story lacks fresh defining purpose. All the earlier films were reflections of their subtitle: Identity was about Bourne finding himself, Supremacy was about him putting his fully developed skills to use, and Ultimatum was about him finishing his part in the black ops program. Here there is no subtitle or an underlying point to go with it. There are some strands about Bourne’s dead dad, but they don’t show up on screen until the midpoint since most of the focus is on some technology company corruption that has nothing to do with Bourne. Even the pre-existing rivalry between Bourne and the Asset is barely there because the Asset isn’t developed enough, not to mention that they hardly even interact. If the movie were to have a subtitle like the earlier ones, it’d probably be titled “The Bourne Redundancy”.

If the story doesn’t warrant a sequel, the sequel isn’t warranted – simple as that. And if there is a movie to be made about Bourne’s dad, then the dad should probably be the focus from the start. Writer Tony Gilroy didn’t crack the story for Supremacy until after realizing that it was going to be about Bourne atoning for his past sins that were left unatoned for in Identity.

The Matrix Resurrections – When a Sequel is not Enough, Part II

The Matrix Resurrections came into existence because the studio said they would make more Matrixes with or without the original filmmakers. And that is definitely evident in the narrative, not only due to its meta forced-sequel nature, but also because it can’t justify itself…

Firstly, the journey is both familiar and same as before. The plot is pretty much a repeat of the original film, beat for feat. There’s the opening Matrix escape, and Neo being pulled out of his boring life, and the choice of the red pill, and Neo being treated as the One, and a human city void of danger and conflict, and Neo ultimately saving someone from the Matrix. Behind the new paintjob it’s exactly the same to a point where those who saw the original know exactly how things will play out. While Neo may be rich in the Matrix this time, he’s still unhappy with his life and thus willing to leave. It may look new but in practice it’s not at all.

A reskin isn’t enough to make the familiar different – true difference comes from playing the familiar differently. How would Neo’s path out of the Matrix change if he’s happy there? How would Neo’s journey change if he’s no longer the center of attention as the One and has to build his own worth? How would the main conflict change if this time it’d be about humans and machines versus humans and machines? How can the old be new?

Secondly, familiar elements are made inferior instead of building and upgrading. While Agent Smith used to be strong enough to devour the Matrix, now he’s some guy who loses to Neo in their first fight. While Neo used to wield great power to do things on his own, now he’s without most of his power and agency and is constantly saved and pushed by others. While the fights used to involve a variety of weapons and locations and dynamics like Neo versus a hundred Smiths, now the fights take place in random warehouses with two pairs of fists clashing. In more cases than not, elements are brought back only to be lowered.

A sequel needs to raise the bar and leave out the parts that can’t be raised. What’s the point of the new Smith if he’s less than the old? What’s the point of bullet time 2.0 if it’s used solely for exposition in a way that Neo can’t even partake in it? What’s the point of new that’s less?

Thirdly, past problems and shortcomings aren’t fixed or concluded. The human city is again super boring due to a lack of proper conflict like before since, still, humans are the good guys. The new machine villain is just as dull as the last one with the only difference being that he’s a hipster instead of a philosopher. Agent Smith’s defeat from last time is undone and his journey begun from square one. The new bad version of the Matrix undoes the work done to fix it previously, without it even being established what it is that makes the new version so terrible. It’s as if nothing was learned – only restarted and re-fumbled.

The main purpose of a sequel is to improve, and to improve, things must be done better than before. If audiences were bored by Zion, maybe the new Zion should be more than boring explanations of how vegetables grow. Or else the result will be exactly the same.

No Way Home – How to Utilize Excess of the Past

Spider-Man: No Way Home fulfills the wettest fanboy dreams by colliding the MCU Peter Parker with elements from prior iterations. And it’s a task that’s very inherently dangerous, seeing as similar excess has claimed the lives of countless movies like Spider-Man 3. Yet, somehow, No Way Home takes all those things that came before and makes them work…

Firstly, events and subplots are united under section-defining problems. Peter at the start has a lot to deal with, from criminal charges to public cancellation to college trouble with friends to botching spells with Strange to fighting Doc Ock. But it all revolves around the same issue of Mysterio exposing his identity. The reason Peter fights Doc Ock at the highway is still the same as the reason for everything else: he has to fix his and his friends’ lives after the exposé. And once it’s done, the next uniting problem is that Strange’s spell pulled in villains from other dimensions and they have to be found. That’s what all the relationships and interactions and fights and goals revolve around from then on. That’s the direction.

An excess of past elements can be fine so long as they all progress under a uniting roof-like problem. Even though Peter hangs around cracking jokes in a lab with Peters 2 and 3, it’s not pointless or aimless since that section is about building the tools to heal the villains who got loose. Fighting a thousand villains at once can work if the main point of the fights is the same.

Secondly, prior emotional value of characters and bonds is recontextualized. The stakes of the villains dying upon being sent back aren’t established beyond words and thus shouldn’t work, yet they do because they’re built on earlier movies showing the deaths. The relationship between MJ and Peter 3 isn’t developed and thus him saving her from falling shouldn’t matter, yet it does because it’s built on his failure to save Gwen in his movie. Peter 2’s role as a voice of reason hasn’t been justified and thus him stopping Peter from killing Goblin shouldn’t pack power, yet it does because he went through that same journey of rage in his movie. The work done in past films is repurposed in a way that it doesn’t need to be done from scratch again.

Main heroes and villains always need proper work, but when there are too many returning side characters to develop, positioning them on top of prior development can do the trick. Doc Ock’s motivational basis functions as is so long as it’s faithful to the way it was constructed to be before. But if he’s given whole new motives and bonds, it must all be built up or it’s nothing.

Thirdly, the past is used as a pathway to another level. Spider-Man’s identity was never outed in the earlier movies, which is why dealing with it here makes it feel like a big deal. Aunt May never died in the earlier movies, which is why the pain it causes here is massive. Peter was never truly alone in the earlier movies, which is why him having absolutely no one in his life at the end here brings up feelings like no other. It’s history that maximizes the present.

Every sequel should feel bigger than its predecessors, and an effective way to ensure that is to identify what the predecessors have and haven’t done and then fill some of those empty slots.

Dark Fate – How to Terminate a Legacy

Terminator: Dark Fate is a perfectly adequate film with interesting relationships and exciting action and Arnold back in top form. But at the same time, it’s a horrible sequel because most of what it does either hurts the predecessors or pales in comparison…

Firstly, the past is invalidated to be redone. John Connor is killed at the start to make way for a “new Terminator story” but in truth the story is the exact same. The new teenage hero is the key to humanity’s victory against the machines in the future – she’s John. The new physically enhanced guardian travels to the past to protect the hero from a liquid terminator sent to kill her – it’s the T-800 and T-1000. The future is attacked by an AI called Legion – it’s Skynet. It’s the same thing that was done in T2, done at the cost of undoing what was accomplished in T2. The forest is burned down to grow it again.

To redo a movie is lazy, but to undo a movie to do it again is a crime. It doesn’t matter that this time Sarah looks after a random girl instead of her own son – it’s the same. It doesn’t matter that this time Arnold sacrifices himself into fire instead of lava – it’s the same. And that’s what John Connor had to die for? That’s what Arnold’s previous sacrifice had to be invalidated for? To do the same thing again with different versions? There was no way to continue the story aside from burning the old pages? Well, T2 says otherwise: the reason Arnold in there is different from Kyle Reese in T1 is due to his father-son relationship with John. The dynamics and relationships there are different. It’s a new story on top of the old one. Clearly it’s possible.

Secondly, the sequences are the same except CGI. The first act is a beat-for-beat recreation of T2 and all difference is visual. Yes, the good “T-800” is actually a human but she’s still the same unsocial brute. Yes, the inciting incident happens at a workplace instead of a mall, but it’s still the same sequence of two enhanced killers approaching the hero at the same time to initiate a chase. The only real difference is that this time that chase and most other chases and action lack grounding physicality. Just watch the Dark Fate highway chase breakdown from the director on Youtube and you’ll hear stuff like, “The cars are digital and this is in front of a green screen and the wheels don’t move because the car doesn’t move.” Meanwhile listen to Cameron’s commentary on T2 and you’ll hear the opposite: “This chopper flying under an overpass is a chopper flying under an overpass.” That’s the difference.

Don’t repeat past action as CGI because even if the difference can’t be seen, it will be felt. Should anyone pay money to see something they’ve already seen for real? Would Top Gun: Maverick have been so successful if this time Cruise sat in a green screen cockpit? Is there a point in having another CGI liquid terminator that looks a bit better and can do a bit more than the last? The answer is no. And that leaves two options: push the CGI to something entirely new or do traditional things practically. A lot of it comes down to production, but for a writer as well, it’s useful to keep in mind which of the elements are which and then write accordingly.

CHAPTER 17

HOLLYWOOD: HUMAN FACTOR

As much as modern Hollywood can seem like a well-oiled machine, at the end of the day, all movies are made by people. And that comes with both the good and the bad. The good meaning that there’s a personal vision involved in the filmmaking, the bad meaning that the vision can suffer from human errors and consequences. What that latter part means – or has most often meant in the past – is one of three scenarios of danger:

1) The film shoots without a proper script.

2) The film’s original vision mixes in with another, incompatible vision.

3) The film’s maker has grown so powerful that they do whatever they please.

When the writers’ strike of 2007-08 went down, many Hollywood blockbusters were forced into production with nothing but short scene descriptions. Among those affected was even James Bond who as a result went from one of his best entries of all time, Casino Royale, to one of his worst, Quantum of Solace. It’s a tough spot to shoot without complete material.

When writer-producer Mark Boal had finished filming The Hurt Locker, a studio executive offered him an interesting note: “Maybe the movie can take place in some other country than Iraq?” An interesting note because it’s a story of explosive ordnance disposal in the Iraq War. Yet, the executive thought it’d be best to add ADR lines saying that it takes place somewhere else, as films set in Iraq had been struggling at the box office lately. The change ended up not happening but not every project is so lucky – sometimes a new vision doesn’t match the old.

When I saw Babylon last night, I was met with an opening of an elephant pooping on a man and a woman pissing on a man and many more such activities. Suffice to say, the film failed to recoup its huge $80 million budget and, as a result, made it ever more difficult for other filmmakers to get their big passion projects financed. Even too much freedom can be tough.

Each of these scenarios comes with their own sets of hoops and hurdles to get through, so in this chapter, let’s look deeper into them and identify some pitfalls to avoid…

Revenge of the Fallen – When a Movie isn’t Written, Part I

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen may not be the worst Bayformers to date but it is the least written. Due to the writers’ strike, production had to commence with a barebones story-document lacking most of the scene-level content. And although it perhaps wasn’t too drastic a change for Bay who mostly focuses on blowing s#!¤ up anyway, it did come at a cost…

Firstly, story information accumulates into massive exposition dumps. Since the scenes weren’t written in detail, most of them consist of usual Bayisms: explosions and fast cars and hot women. The result of which is that all the necessary plot info piles up like unpaid tax until it has to be dealt with all at once for the movie to be able to move on, like in the Egypt section. The heroes go meet Simmons to know the history behind Sam’s symbols, then they go find an old Transformer to know the meaning of the symbols, and then they teleport to Egypt to know the full backstory of the symbols. It’s almost twenty minutes of non-stop boring exposition, all because the exposition wasn’t distributed in smaller organic pieces within the earlier scenes.

Writing means paying the tax of story information as the story unfolds – hide it in action, hide it in tension, make it part of the experience. Otherwise, it keeps piling up and piling up until the pile grows so massive that its eventual enormous size puts the audience to sleep.

Secondly, story beats unfold without being made anything out of. The heart of the film is Sam’s relationship with Mikaela and it’s put to the test when he leaves for college, as he’s missing Skype calls with her and being framed to be dating a hot Decepticon. It’s a great setup to break their bond so that the bond must be fixed throughout the story, except that never happens. Mikaela immediately realizes that Sam’s “cheating” wasn’t his fault and then there’s some banter and then they’re already back together. It’s as if the idea of their relationship being under strain and broken is there but not actually present.

Plot beats are of use only when used. Sam’s arc of learning to express his feelings doesn’t matter if the growth over the arc isn’t what unlocks final victory, and the villain’s weapon is pointless if Optimus just instantly destroys it. If elements don’t play, they’re not in the game.

Thirdly, story beats aren’t connected naturally. Locations change drastically within a single shot, from a city to a forest and from an ocean to space. Emotional states and power dynamics swing wildly between scenes, like when Sam runs from Decepticons in fear after they kill Optimus only for the Decepticons to then suddenly be angry over losing Sam even though they never did. Plot points occur without any logic, like how Sam and Mikaela decide to cross the ending battlefield on foot instead of driving just so that all the exciting stuff can happen, after which they drive anyway. It’s as if there’s no bridge between the events – just a gap.

The purpose of scenes is only half the battle, with the transition between them being just as vital. Instead of having Sam go on foot at the end just because that’s what needs to happen, find a way for it to happen organically. Or else the audience will see the strings being pulled.

Quantum of Solace – When a Movie isn’t Written, Part II

Quantum of Solace was in such deep script trouble following the writers’ strike that even Bond himself, Daniel Craig, was forced to take a seat at the typewriter. They had the main strokes of the story but that’s about it. And it seems they got hit even harder than Bay…

Firstly, scenes are either action or free information. Bond flees assassins with White in his trunk, and then talks with M about White to give his organization context. Bond chases the MI6 traitor who freed White, and then talks with M about the traitor’s ties to the organization. Bond kills an operative in Haiti to assume his role, and then tails the female lead to a pier where the villains discuss their plan. It’s a repeating one-two punch of action and resulting info that in turn unlocks the next section of action – the very opposite of Revenge of the fallen. And it’s not much better, as the constant shifting down for plain exposition leads to constant boredom.

Scenes of information should be scenes same as all others: challenges being faced, obstacles being overcome, actions being made. Instead of the POV moving to the villains at the pier, maybe Bond should have to sneak in past guards to eavesdrop on their discussion. Info should be a prize to unlock rather than mandatory context forced down the viewer’s throat.

Secondly, the journey and events are left at idea level. Most of what Bond does, he simply and easily does: he infiltrates the organization’s meeting by walking in, loses a CIA death squad by walking out, defies the agent ordered to retrieve him by walking past her. And his arc of being consumed by rage after Vesper’s death isn’t done much more with. He kills the MI6 traitor but without a choice and he kills the Haiti operative but not on purpose – even the civilian guard he throws off a roof doesn’t die. Bond’s wrath plays such a shallow role in practice that shallow is exactly how it feels. There’s nothing about his “rage kills” to make them any worse than all his “good kills” that occur in the finale, other than the matter being treated as such.

Ideas are worth only as much as their tangible form. For an evil organization to be taken seriously, its leaders probably shouldn’t be bullied by Bond throughout. For Bond’s rage to be real, he should probably lose control and execute people in a much worse and more personal way than how he usually kills. If it’s not actually done, it may as well not be there at all.

Thirdly, plotlines appear out of thin air and disappear without conclusion. The main plot revolves around the villains stealing water to shift power in South America, and it’s not too evident. The lack of water isn’t present until the third act when Bond finds a hidden reserve and walks past one dry village. Before that, it’s hardly relevant since he’s only visited high-class locations unaffected by the issue. Plus, it’s not even resolved. Bond kills some bad guys at the end and then credits roll. Huh? What happened? Did the locals get that water or not?

Narrative threads need a proper beginning and end to be proper. If the female agent’s whole existence comes down to appearing at an airport to stop Bond and following him to a hotel to have intercourse with him and then to have suddenly died… that’s not quite enough.

The New Mutants – A Collision of Visions, Part I

The New Mutants is an embodiment of the phrase “too many cooks in the kitchen.” Although there were no actual reshoots after production due to the actors aging out of their roles, the road to production was so rocky that at one point the studio had seven different writers altering the writer-director’s vision. And the result is no less than an incompatible mess…

Firstly, sections lack logical interconnection. The opening sees the young hero, Dani, run from a storm attacking her home, only to wake up in a hospital afterwards. Except it’s not a hospital but a treatment center for young mutants starting to manifest their powers. Which is strange seeing as so far there’s been no evidence of Dani having powers or that mutants even exist – all that’s happened is that she ran from a supernatural beast of some kind. The movie goes from a triangle-shaped piece into a square-shaped hole, with the hero just accepting the verbal reveal at face value and going along, and with the viewer being expected to do the same.

Every effect needs a cause to give it context. Dani trying to flee the center right away is weird if she hasn’t yet been ordered to stay, and the kids drugging the teacher to have fun is weird if they haven’t yet been told not to have fun. The only way it makes sense that a hero wakes up in rehab after a car crash is if substances have been shown to play a part in the crash.

Secondly, character cores and actions lack consistency. The religious girl has a deep wound of shame from being demonized by her church due to her powers and interest in women. And that’s a smartly layered core – she’s been made ashamed of her mutant nature the same way she’s been made ashamed of liking girls. It’s just very bizarre, then, how in a matter of a few scenes, she successfully befriends and seduces Dani to get to first base with her. One would think that the religious girl’s flaw of being quiet and ashamed would make it hard for her to open up, instead of her being a confident socializer picking up girls with ease. It doesn’t match.

Characters can be and do whatever so long as they’re faithful to themselves. The Russian girl’s deep wound comes from being abused by strange creepy men as a kid, which then makes her hostility toward Dani a bit lacking, since though Dani is a stranger, she’s not creepy or a man. The less direct the link between behavior and core, the less real it seems.

Thirdly, scenes lack all-encompassing purpose. The personal scare scenes happen to the teenagers randomly when they’re doing nothing meaningful like during laundry and church. The main goal is for the mutant teenagers to “get better,” yet all it means in practice is that they sit in a circle talking, with no sense of whether they’re getting better or what it even means. The character exploration scenes exist in a void, like when the teenagers play with a lie detector for no other reason than for the writer of that scene to be able to talk about their pasts. It’s not a series of events building up to a larger result but rather a collection of separate occurrences.

A vision means one grand point that the content unites to serve and progress toward. When that’s missing, all that remains is stuff happening as per the many visions making them happen.

Batman v Superman – A Collision of Visions, Part II

Batman v Superman is a good reminder of how the writing credit system works. A screenplay by “X & Y” means that the writers worked together, while a screenplay by “X and Y” means that they worked separately as is the case here. And since the writers, David Goyer and Chris Terrio, are very different, so are the different sections of the film they contributed to most…

Firstly, the tone of the world is all over the place. Things open with Lois Lane conducting an interview with a Middle Eastern warlord, with many realistically gritty turns: the CIA has embedded into her crew, a nearby predator drone arrives within a few minutes to blow up the village, and Lex Luthor is using black ops mercenaries to frame Superman of war crimes. Whereas by the third act, things have gotten to a point where Superman is punching a dumb CGI monstrosity into space while the US launches a nuclear warhead so fast that it reaches them by the time they get to space. The difference is like night and day.

Both tonal sides here have their strengths – the start written by Terrio relies on Argo-like realism, while the end written by Goyer is a loud popcorn blockbuster. The issue is that they’re so unalike that they don’t even feel like the same movie. It’s pretty weird to open with a deep poem of Bruce Wayne’s inner feelings and then end with the US nuking space in an eyeblink.

Secondly, character skills and motives fluctuate. Lois initially is a capable investigative journalist who meets dangerous people in the Middle East and follows governmental breadcrumbs to expose Luthor’s plan. Whereas by the third act she’s become more of a goofy damsel who gets herself into pointless trouble. She can’t run straight without stumbling, she “disposes of” the lethal kryptonite-spear by dropping it in a hole of water where any random person can find it, she dives after the spear and gets stuck just so that Superman can come in and save her again. It’s like half of her IQ has magically evaporated during the experience.

Characters are only as realistic as their consistency throughout a film. It takes away from Superman to first have him produce his own conflicting motives against Batman, only to then swap them up with motivations given to him by Luthor. Better either-or than fifty-fifty.

Thirdly, plotlines lead to conclusions fully unlike their beginning. Bruce Wayne practices corporate espionage to figure out Luthor’s involvement in a black market arms shipment, and by the time it gets resolved, it’s become a shameless sequel bait highlighting the other Justice League superheroes who will show up in future movies. As in, the same plot-thread goes from an illegal weapons deal to a future-vision of a doomed earth to random footage of Aquaman posing to camera at the bottom of the sea. That’s quite a jump.

Whatever plotlines are, they should remain. To spend time on Clark investigating the immoral actions of Batman and then ultimately make him fight Batman simply because Luthor forces him to… it can feel like a bit of a waste of time.

Army of the Dead – When a Filmmaker Grows too Powerful, Part I

Army of the Dead is Zack Snyder’s first collaboration with Netflix, in which he’s given free hands to do what he wants: he’s the director, writer, producer, and even the cinematographer. A great position to be in as a filmmaker, sure, but that freedom also comes with dangers…

Firstly, motivation is sacrificed for spectacle. The opening of the army hauling the zombie unfolds without context – they’re just taking it somewhere for some reason until all hell randomly breaks loose. The villain’s henchman betrays the heroes without reason – he could’ve just flown out with them instead of needlessly making enemies of them. The hero, Batista, lets his daughter join the dangerous trip despite her responsibility of watching two kids, just because she says she’s coming. The stakes do get elevated and cool things do happen, but more so via outside forces applying to characters rather than via characters’ inner drives.

Even if you can do anything, everything should be constrained to motives. Instead of the zombie breaking loose by accident, maybe some terrorist group tries to steal it and that leads to the crash. Instead of Batista letting his daughter tag along, maybe he assigns a cop to take her and the kids to safety with other civilians, only for her to find a guardian for the kids and sneak out after him until it’s too late to turn her back. Spectacle should be born from people.

Secondly, narrative aspects and sections aren’t consistent. The zombies at first are killing machines that turn Vegas into a “death trap,” yet when the heroes arrive, the only zombies in sight are the kind that let them pass in exchange for payment. And when the heroes do run into normal zombies, turns out they’re actually too weak to kill one armed woman in a small space. Except soon after when they’re apparently so unbeatable that the other heroes don’t even bother to try to help her. Except later when they’re useless again. The threat level swings so wildly depending on what the moment requires that it’s unclear if it should be taken seriously or not.

No matter what you do, rules and levels should be stuck to. If the US is so serious about the virus that they’re willing to nuke Vegas, it’s pretty strange that the security outside Vegas is so lax that possible virus carriers can buy their way out with iPhones. If Batista lost people in Vegas, it’s pretty strange that he takes his daughter there. Are things serious or aren’t they?

Thirdly, events are treated as boxes to check. The recruitment scenes are nothing but the heroes talking to people who say yes without conflict or obstacles. The villain’s plan scene is nothing but him explaining the plot to a point where even Snyder calls it an obligatory plan scene in an interview. The zombie-tiger’s introduction is nothing but the tiger walking in and out of frame. The nuke reveal is nothing but a TV news alert. It’s as if a thousand things are rushed through instead of fifty things being made the most out of.

Even if you’re allowed to, you can’t do everything you want. The number of ideas should be reduced to a level where they can be utilized fully, and there should be no “obligatory scenes” because movies should be something the audience gets to watch rather than has to watch.

Age of Extinction – When a Filmmaker Grows too Powerful, Part II

Transformers: Age of Extinction marked Michael Bay’s seventh year at the helm of the franchise. And by this point in time, he’d grown so powerful and fed-up as a Transformers director that he was doing whatever he pleased. Which, left unchecked, came at a terrible cost…

Firstly, excess of comedy ruins emotional basis. The hero, Cade, is meant to be a skilled inventor struggling to make ends meet, yet in practice it’s for laughs only. All his “inventions” are dumb jokes, the scrap he buys at the start to make money with is never done anything with, and the idea of him losing his house never goes beyond him chasing the realtor away with a baseball bat. Same with the main relationship between Cade and his daughter. Cade is hard on her because she’s growing into a woman, yet there’s no deeper exploration of that. He’s just a dad who hates boys as dads do, and thus it’s funny when he has to go on a journey with a boy who openly talks about boning his daughter. And sure, maybe it is funny, but not much more.

A signature style of comedy can’t come at the expense of the material. For there to be a proper bond between Cade and Optimus, there should be a scene of Cade spending the night fixing Optimus, instead of that being cut out in favor of a joke with a haywire missile. Caring is more important than laughing and laughing doesn’t equal caring. See also: Thor: Love & Thunder.

Secondly, events occur no matter the illogicality. The main plot revolves around the CIA working with a Transformer bounty hunter, Lockdown, to hunt Optimus… and it’s pretty odd. What does an intergalactic warrior need the CIA for? Why does the CIA trust Lockdown when the whole basis is that they don’t trust Transformers? How come Lockdown hunts Optimus to balance cosmic scales when at the same time he’s okay with rewarding the CIA with a Transformer nuke that is sure to tip off those scales? The answer is always the same: “It is what it is.” More concern is on doing cool stuff than on the details behind it.

A filmmaker should never be above the film. If the Autobots are finally given distinct personalities, maybe they shouldn’t all be given the same personality of being loud and rash Michael Bay caricatures, seeing as it sort of defeats the purpose of doing it in the first place.

Thirdly, the material is degraded with a lack of integrity. The third act magically moves the story to China for no other reason than to pander to Chinese money. The third act also adds a whole new set of momentary heroes and villains to fight with and against without any prior buildup because why not. There are moments in the third act where random people appear in the middle of the screen in one shot and disappear in the next. The finale hinges on the heroes having to run from danger, after which it turns out that Optimus could fly all along. It’s as if the movie doesn’t have an ounce of respect for itself or what it does.

If a filmmaker lacks enthusiasm to make a film, they probably shouldn’t make it. And if you get to a point where there’s nobody there to tell you no, you have to be able to tell it to yourself. Otherwise, the very same problems will keep happening like with Bay in The Last Knight.

CHAPTER 18

ESSENTIAL FLOPS

As one last thing to cross the finish line with, I thought it could be useful to highlight some of the worst movies I’ve covered on my Youtube channel over the years. Not necessarily worst in terms overall quality since it’s always subjective, but worst in the sense that their negative qualities center around a wide variety of key filmmaking topics – from plot to character to scene-work to exposition to anything of the sort. The honor of receiving the Filmento award for the worst overall job goes to a most unlikely trilogy:

– Doom: Annihilation, for its inability to handle the fundamentals.

– Artemis Fowl, for treating the audience as gullible idiots.

– Morbius, for being Morbius.

Each of these three movies have their own issues, but what unites them all is that their main issue at heart is being lacklusterly boring. Many films suffer from problems but usually not to the point of being rotten to the core – even Michael Bay at his worst is able to pack his content with exciting elements to maintain some level of entertainment. Whereas to watch this specific trilogy is perhaps the toughest cinematic challenge known to mankind, as no amount of coffee or white powder or industrial adrenaline would be enough to prevent your eyes from closing and your mind from drifting off into a deep slumber. These three movies are weaponized anesthesia on the scale of a WMD.

So, in this final chapter, let’s dive deeper into what it is that makes the worst of the worst what they are. Some aspects may have been covered in earlier pages but consider this a victory lap of terrible. These are the fundamental aspects of cinema that anyone writing or making a movie should strive to avoid at any cost…

Doom: Annihilation – A Case Study of Terrible, Part I

Doom: Annihilation is a 2019 adaptation trying to leech off the success of the rebooted video game franchise. It’s such an obvious cash grab that before it was even released, it became the target of widespread ridicule on Twitter, to which its own official account only added fuel. That was fun to watch. The movie itself though is not because its basics are broken…

Firstly, characters lack person-defining introductions. The hero’s entrance consists of her waking up from a generic dying-mom dream and doing some stretching and then going to eat breakfast. That’s it. It may give tidbits of her past and rank but nothing of who she is as a person today. Whereas the other characters don’t get intros at all, as they’re unveiled on screen as a group eating breakfast in a way that makes it tough to even tell them apart. There are no revealing actions or choices or anything of the kind, and the only individuality comes from stereotypes: there’s the loudmouth big black guy, the super smart Asian, the brave commander, and the badass female soldier with blue hair. There are many characters but no people.

If the audience doesn’t have enough to see the hero as a person, the game is over before it even begins – nobody cares what happens to a blank loaf of bread. Also, if you feature a culturally rich cast, it’s not the best idea to have all the non-white characters die instantly.

Secondly, the plot components lack practical foundation. The goal is to find the moon facility’s reactor to restore power, yet it means nothing since the reactor’s existence isn’t established beyond words – we have no idea where we are in relation to it or what must be done to reach it and thus there’s no sense of progress. The stakes are built on the entire moon blowing up if the damaged facility’s power isn’t restored, yet the looming doom is barely present – there’s no damage or tremors or alarms or broken lights or even any dirt visible in the hallways. The urgency comes from the moon blowing up in ninety minutes, but even that is based on trust-me-bro.com due to one character just looking at a screen and saying it’s so.

A plot doesn’t work unless its components are made to work. A goal must be shown and the stakes must be proven and the urgency must be real. And also, the hero should have a personal side to the journey as well because the moon blowing up isn’t enough for anyone to care.

Thirdly, the exposition is four tiers of terrible verbal information. Tier one is verbal info that’s used as the basis for emotion, like when the hero is devastated to shoot her zombified friend even though their bond has existed in words only. Tier two is verbal info that degrades the source of emotion, like when the hero casually discusses her mom’s death even though it’s meant to be her deepest, most painful wound that she struggles with. Tier three is verbal info that gets repeated, like when characters describe how teleporters function even though it was already shown. Tier four is verbal Peppa-Pig-info that treats the audience as little kids, like when the hero explains the BFG in great detail instead of just blowing up a demon with it.

A movie is as bad as its worst exposition, so handle it with care and at your own peril.

Artemis Fowl – A Case Study of Terrible, Part II

Artemis Fowl is a Disney+ release from 2020 that’s based on a popular series of books, I guess. Watching the movie didn’t exactly make me feel like finding out. Mostly because, according to the way it does things, I’m a gullible idiot willing to accept anything at face value…

Firstly, character specialty isn’t backed up. The hero, Artemis, is a kid genius on the level of all historical masterminds rolled into one, as is proposed by everyone else in the film. It’s not really present in his intro – which for some reason is a montage of him surfing (?) – but when his big brain abilities are finally showcased, what’s the ingenious way it plays out? Well, he deduces that the poem his missing dad told him every night before bed is a clue, and it leads him to take that poetry book from the shelf and realize it’s the key to finding him. Damn! How did he piece that puzzle!? True mastermind! That definitely justifies him making insanely convoluted deductions based on absolutely nothing to advance the story later on!

A character’s individual strength exists only when it’s built up with evidence. You can’t just say that the hero is a genius and then make him figure out the square root of an eight-digit number without even knowing the number. The audience isn’t dumb enough to believe it.

Secondly, character behavior is forced nonsense. Once Artemis has captured a fairy girl, the fairy army shows up to surround his house. And the reason the fairies can’t simply attack is because Artemis says they can’t come in his house unless he invites them (?). Thus, the fairies send a dwarf to dig his way into the house’s basement to rescue the girl, even though he could just walk in through the door or break a window (?). But accidentally, the dwarf digs his way up into the second floor of the house (??) and becomes distracted by the smell of a MacGuffin instead of saving the girl (?). That’s only touching the surface, but the point is that characters don’t act according to their own will but rather according to whatever the script is telling them.

Characters can’t just do whatever the writer needs them to do because they become obvious manifestations of the writing. For them to be seen as people, they need to behave as dictated by their own drives and personalities and the information they possess.

Thirdly, the plot decides its own arbitrary direction. The main point is that the villain kidnaps Artemis’ dad and forces Artemis to find a powerful MacGuffin in exchange for his life. And out of nowhere, Artemis then decides that the MacGuffin must be in his house and limits his search there, without any evidence of it being there. Then, by looking at a picture in a book, he deduces that he needs to capture a fairy so that the fairy army sends in a dwarf who will magically find the MacGuffin… which is exactly what happens. The dwarf accidentally digs his way upstairs and finds the MacGuffin and then the movie ends. What the f¤#%?

A writer can decide what the plot is but not arbitrarily decide its nature – it has to make sense within its own context. You can’t force a triangle into a square box even if you made both.

Morbius – A Case Study of Terrible, Part III

Morbius may have made 300 Morbillion dollars at the box office, but as is often said, imaginary financial success does not necessarily equal a successful movie. As much as it pains me to accept, what was meant to be a morbin’ time is mostly just a morbid time…

Firstly, the hero represents the worst of what a hero can be which is an unspecial and unmotivated blank shell. Morbius’ signature gist is being a brilliant medical doctor, yet all he does is fix a machine like an engineer and save a kid by injecting a sedative, which reduces his gist into fairy dust and leaves him with no defining specialty aside from his condition. His goal is to cure his condition but with no endgame reason – he does nothing with his new powers and is left passive. His personality is so small that he tests his powers in the safety of his lab and barely ever gets into real conflict or makes choices of big willpower, like a boring husk.

While characters can be anything, the easiest type to make work is a uniquely special, strongly motivated, larger-than-life person à la Tony Stark. Morbius should prove his medical talent and cure his condition to do something he can’t yet do and have enough personality to not be dull.

Secondly, scenes are made up of all the worst components. They’re full of exposition, like with the conference talk of Morbius’ unseen doctor achievements. They’re brief moments of info designed to move the plot forward, like when Morbius has to do nothing to capture the bats other than lift a hand and wait for the scene to cut away. They’re easy, like when all Morbius has to do to take over a drug lab is stumble upon it and bully the crooks. They’re isolated events without a larger narrative purpose, like when a random crew of a shipping vessel for some reason carries rifles instead of being part of a crime family playing a bigger role.

You thought that was it? Nah. The scenes also lack a fire burning underneath, like with Morbius having no real rush to cure his condition since he’s been living with it for decades. And they lack a purpose to fight for, like when Morbius just kind of battles his friend at the end with nothing there to stop him from doing. It’s one or more of the above with almost every scene.

Thirdly, the timing is decades late. Bad CGI aside, the way the movie plays out makes it seem like an origin tale from the early 2000s. There are cringy childhood-problem flashbacks, shallow side characters with no life outside the role they play in the hero’s life, unreal events like police storming a home without a warrant or probable cause, and artificial constructs of the plot like the two detectives who make insane conclusions to become suspicious of Morbius.

The crucial thing to understand about writing and filmmaking is that the bar keeps rising constantly. It may not always feel like it, but audiences grow to require more every year and movies today can’t get away with doing what movies did in the past. Female heroes can’t be just pretty faces existing to serve the male hero’s existence, and the hero can’t earn the viewer’s respect by giving money to a random homeless guy. You have to be smarter, more efficient and realistic and nuanced. To achieve true morbin’ time, you have to be less like Morbius.

DETAILED LIST OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1: HIGH-CONCEPT

Edge of Tomorrow – How to Master Concept, Part I

The Old Guard – How to Master Concept, Part II

Gemini Man – How to Fumble Concept, Part I

R.I.P.D. – How to Fumble Concept, Part II

Inception – When a Film Equals the Idea

Jupiter Ascending – Broken Worldbuilding, Part I

Tom & Jerry – Broken Worldbuilding, Part II

Tenet – Concept as an Enslaver, Part I

Rings of Power – Concept as an Enslaver, Part II

CHAPTER 2: CHARACTERS: HEROES

Alita: Battle Angel – A Hero to Root For, Part I

Spider-Man 2 – A Hero to Root For, Part II

The Curse of the Black Pearl – How to Introduce a Hero

Ralph Breaks the Internet – The Flaw & The Arc

Green Lantern – The Weak Strong Hero

Iron Man – From Villain to Protagonist, Part I

Joker – From Villain to Protagonist, Part II

Nightcrawler – From Villain to Protagonist, Part III

Dead Men Tell No Tales – A Recipe for a Terrible Hero, Part I

Men In Black: International – A Recipe for a Terrible Hero, Part II

Captain Marvel – The Case of Empowerment, Part I

Charlie’s Angels – The Case of Empowerment, Part II

Cruella – The Case of Empowerment, Part III

Tomb Raider – The Case of Empowerment, Part IV

Tulsa King – Character Lessons From Taylor Sheridan

Two Suicide Squads, One Difference of Irony

CHAPTER 3: CHARACTERS: VILLAINS

The Core Ingredients of an Ultimate Antagonist

How to Introduce an Antagonist

Wonder Woman – The CGI Monstrosity Problem

Aquaman – The Significance of an Uncompromising Villain

Doctor Strange 2 – What Turns a Strong Villain Weak, Part I

Love and Thunder – What Turns a Strong Villain Weak, Part II

Endgame – What Turns a Strong Villain Weak, Part III

Maverick – How to Make a Movie Without a Villain

CHAPTER 4: PLOT

Dead Man’s Chest – The Vital Plot Organs, Part I

Days of Future Past – The Vital Plot Organs, Part II

Eternals – When Plot Organs Go Missing

Bumblebee – The Consequences of a Missing Plot

Shazam! – How to Compensate for a Missing Plot

Blade Runner 2049 – When a Narrative is not Enough

Dune – When a Narrative is Enough

Prey – The Downside of Simplicity

CHAPTER 5: THEME

King of the Monsters – How to Utilize Theme, Part I

How to Train Your Dragon 3 – How to Utilize Theme, Part II

CHAPTER 6: STRUCTURE

The Force Awakens – The Modern Hollywood Structure

How to Begin a Movie, Part I

The Dark Knight – How to Begin a Movie, Part II

Venom – How Not to Begin a Movie, Part I

Robin Hood – How Not to Begin a Movie, Part II

Rogue One – When a First Act Doesn’t Exist

Fant4stic Four – Time Jumps as a Pitfall

Endgame – How to End a Movie

Spectre – How Not to End a Movie

Gods of Egypt – A Guide to a Terrible Hollywood Blockbuster, Part I

I, Frankenstein – A Guide to a Terrible Hollywood Blockbuster, Part II

CHAPTER 7: SCENES & SCENE TOOLS

The Tools for Building an Ultimate Scene

Into the Spider-Verse – The Many Shades of Reversals

Back to the Future – The Power of Setups & Payoffs, Part I

Us – The Power of Setups & Payoffs, Part II

Ghost in the Shell – When Setups and Payoffs Go Missing

Knives Out – Dramatic Irony as a Subversive Weapon

The Snyder Cut – Significance of Scene-work, Part I

No Time to Die – Significance of Scene-work, Part II

Man of Steel – Significance of Scene-work, Part III

A Game of Shadows – Intelligence as a Tool

Solomon Lane – A Case Study of Dynamics

King Arthur – The Duality of Moments

How to Handle Exposition

CHAPTER 8: GENRE: ACTION

At World’s End – The Building Blocks of a Set-piece Sequence, Part I

Ghost Protocol – The Building Blocks of a Set-piece Sequence, Part II

Shang-Chi – How to Elevate Action, Part I

Bullet Train – How to Elevate Action, Part II

The King’s Man – How to Elevate Action, Part III

Terminator 2 – How to Elevate Action, Part IV

The 355 – Why Hollywood’s Female Action Movies Fail

The Gray Man – The Good-Enough Bar of Action

Heat – How to Build a Shootout Sequence, Part I

John Wick – How to Build a Shootout Sequence, Part II

Ambulance – Bayhem as an Asset

CHAPTER 9: GENRE: HORROR

A Quiet Place 2 – How to Weaken a Monster, Part I

Moonfall – How to Weaken a Monster, Part II

Love and Monsters – How to Strengthen a Monster

Monster Hunter – How Not to Strengthen a Monster

Halloween – How to Lessen a Boogeyman, Part I

Halloween Ends – How to Lessen a Boogeyman, Part II

It: Chapter 2 – How to Lessen a Boogeyman, Part III

The Curse of La Llorona – How to Lessen a Boogeyman, Part IV

Malignant – How to Lessen a Boogeyman, Part V

CHAPTER 10: GENRE: THRILLER

Glass – The Dangers of Containment

The Winter Soldier – How to Evoke Dread

Seven – How to Build a Detective Murder Mystery, Part I

The Batman – How to Build a Detective Murder Mystery, Part II

Black Widow – A Spy Thriller Without the Thrill

The Tomorrow War – How to Make More out of Thrill

CHAPTER 11: GENRE: SUPERHERO/EPIC

Age of Ultron – How to Mature Your Superheroes

Infinity War – Managing a Massive Cinematic Team-up

Hellboy – Fumbling a Massive Cinematic Team-up

Clash of the Titans – When Epicness isn’t Earned

Moonfall – When a Disaster Movie Becomes a Disaster

Civil War – The Essentials of Domestic Conflict, Part I

Godzilla v Kong – The Essentials of Domestic Conflict, Part II

Dark Phoenix – How to Fumble Domestic Conflict

CHAPTER 12: GENRE: VIDEO GAME

Uncharted – The Curse of the Video Game Movie, Part I

Mortal Kombat – The Curse of the Video Game Movie, Part II

Assassin’s Creed – The Curse of the Video Game Movie, Part III

Sonic – Breaking the Video Game Movie Curse, Part I

Sonic 2 – Breaking the Video Game Movie Curse, Part II

CHAPTER 13: HOLLYWOOD: ADAPTATION

Free Guy – How to Steal IP Value for Free

Ninja Turtles – How to Waste IP

Ninja Turtles 2 – How to Utilize IP

Mulan – When an Adaptation Lacks Purpose

Crimes of Grindelwald – Stumbling from Book to Screen, Part I

Secrets of Dumbledore – Stumbling from Book to Screen, Part II

CHAPTER 14: HOLLYWOOD: BLOCKBUSTER

GI Joe: Snake Eyes – How to Make a Dumb Movie for Kids, Part I

Let There Be Carnage – How to Make a Dumb Movie for Kids, Part II

Wonder Woman 1984 – How to Make a Dumb Movie for Yourself

The Lone Ranger – The Boring Blockbuster, Part I

John Carter – The Boring Blockbuster, Part II

Terminator Genisys – The Boring Blockbuster, Part III

Midway – The Big Empty Movie

Mortal Engines – Excess as a Curse, Part I

The Amazing Spider-Man 2 – Excess as a Curse, Part II

Red Notice – The Consumable Movie, Part I

Solo – The Consumable Movie, Part II

Far From Home – How to Make a Tiny Massive Blockbuster

Chaos Walking – What Studio Rework Can’t Fix

Dark of the Moon – How to Build an Epic Baybuster

Battleship – The Baybuster Without Bayhem

The Tomorrow War – How to Unite a Big Movie

CHAPTER 15: HOLLYWOOD: FRANCHISE

Black Adam – How to Fumble an Origin Movie

Game of Thrones – A Finish to Flip a Fanbase, Part I

The Rise of Skywalker – A Finish to Flip a Fanbase, Part II

Halloween Kills – When Franchise Roots Turn Toxic, Part I

Jurassic World Dominion – When Franchise Roots Turn Toxic, Part II

Suicide Squad – A DC-sastrous Case Study

The Suicide Squad – A DC-tastic Case Study

Terminator Salvation – How Reboots Fail

Rise of an Empire – An Example of Franchise Rules

CHAPTER 16: HOLLYWOOD: SEQUEL

Dead Man’s Chest – The Worthy Follow-up, Part I

Wrath of the Titans – The Worthy Follow-up, Part II

On Stranger Tides – When a Sequel Becomes a Spinoff

Jason Bourne – When a Sequel is not Enough, Part I

The Matrix Resurrections – When a Sequel is not Enough, Part II

No Way Home – How to Utilize Excess of the Past

Dark Fate – How to Terminate a Legacy

CHAPTER 17: HOLLYWOOD: HUMAN FACTOR

Revenge of the Fallen – When a Movie isn’t Written, Part I

Quantum of Solace – When a Movie isn’t Written, Part II

The New Mutants – A Collision of Visions, Part I

Batman v Superman – A Collision of Visions, Part II

Army of the Dead – When a Filmmaker Grows too Powerful, Part I

Age of Extinction – When a Filmmaker Grows too Powerful, Part II

CHAPTER 18: ESSENTIAL FLOPS

Doom: Annihilation – A Case Study of Terrible, Part I

Artemis Fowl – A Case Study of Terrible, Part II

Morbius – A Case Study of Terrible, Part III

…you’re still here? It’s over. Go home. Close the book.

Oh, you’re expecting a teaser for Anatomy of Film Perfection Part 2? Well, that’s not happening. Not until at least 2028.

What, were you expecting Sam Jackson to show up and announce a whole series of these things? Are you mad? You understand that I used up my entire holiday and more to get this thing done in time? My plan was to relax and do some book writing here and there, and instead, my vacation days this past month have been longer than my usual workdays. Literally – I get up to do the necessary amount of pages and then it’s around 10-11PM. Then I have to go for a run or to the gym to even get out of the house, and then there’s an hour or maybe two left to watch a show and that’s it. Rinse and repeat. And you want more!? What!?

I guess what I can give you is a list of the shows I watched during the writing of this book:

– Severance

– Tulsa King

– 1883

– Echo 3

– Black Bird

All good shows, I thought. Some are slower to get started than others but all pick up speed soon enough. Check them out. Or don’t. I don’t know what you like and don’t like. But in any case, each of these shows has my thanks due to giving me something other than this book to think about for brief moments in a day. Except of course for the times when they didn’t, like how Tulsa King made me write an entry about it. I almost wrote pages for 1883 and Echo 3 as well but, luckily, I managed not to because there has to be an end to this thing at some point.

Before the keyboard breaks for good, I just want to say thanks very much for checking the book out and for reading. The reason I wrote it was to help you improve your craft the best I can. And I hope that happened at least to some extent.

Okay. That’s it. Check out my Youtube if you want and support me on Patreon if you want and tell your friends about this book if you want and do whatever you want so long as it’s not criminal, I guess. See you on Youtube, or if not there, then in 2028 when the next book comes.

Best regards,

Your pal

Fil Mentos